


Sonnet

by subtext-is-my-division (Quill_A)



Series: sonnetverse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bet yall love that tag, Bisexuality, Bottom Sherlock, Bullying, Canon Typical Violence, Don't let that put you off, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Homophobia, I wrote this when I was still in school, Jim is a creepy fucker, John Watson is a Saint, John is soft, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Paternal Lestrade, Quite a lot of it, Schoolboys, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, So it reads differently than my later works, Substance Abuse, Teenlock, Threats of sexual violence, also, mycroft is a very good brother, some case fic, some probably dubious forensics, we were all young and naive once
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2019-12-07 14:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 69,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18235835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_A/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division
Summary: Sherlock had spent a very long time feeling very, very lonely.He had never realised this, of course. Until John Watson came along into his life, and Sherlock realised there had been an empty space there that John had filled up perfectly.ON HIATUS. NOT ABANDONED.(Reposting an old fic!)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So: Bit of a Long Note. This story was originally written waaaay back in 2014 when I was still in high school, and I wasn't much of a writer then. But since the writing spanned about two years, I like to think there was some improvement. This was originally posted on fanfiction.net, but I've recently deleted that account, and since this was my first Sherlock fanfiction, and because it's very dear to my heart, I've decided to re post it here. It's also the Original Fic that spawned my sonnetverse fics revolving around John and Sherlock in ther mid twenties.
> 
> Yes, I was even more of an amateur writer then as I am now, but the plot is halfway decent, and I did write my first sex scene here, and realised how much I love this fandom through writing it. (yay) Please be kind, and leave me a comment if you enjoy it. It's a completed work, so you can expected an update every two weeks after I polish up some rough bits and edit it.

Sherlock was not fond of school. Sherlock  _detested_ school. Mostly because it was dull. Sherlock found everything extremely dull. And boring. Life in general was boring, and Sherlock spent the majority of it moping about the unfairness of it all. What the  _point_ of being a genius when the world stubbornly refused to challenge you?

Which was why he was extremely annoyed when somebody began to knock very loudly on his door. Sherlock deduced this was his housekeeper. It wasn't much of a deduction. He moved only enough to throw his pillow at the door and complain, "I don't  _want_ to go to school! Go away!" Then he flopped back on the bed, and covered his face with a pillow to spare his eardrums the shock of her shrieks.

But she made it very difficult to get up, and when the butler joined in, it became very difficult indeed. So finally he had to wake up. Mycroft, evidently, did not care for this early morning drama, or he had expected Sherlock to wake up anyway. In any case, all he had done was place two slices of toast on the plate when Sherlock came downstairs to the breakfast table dressed in his uniform.

"Good morning," Mycroft said, not looking up from his newspaper.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock said, trying to sound very superior.

"Eat your toast," Mycroft replied very smoothly.

"I hate you," Sherlock muttered.

"I'm aware. Eat your toast."

"You're positively  _hateful_."

"Sit down and eat your toast or I'll close the library down."

"If you do that I shall run away," He sat down anyway. Mycroft did not make idle threats. That was one of the things that made him so distasteful. The other things were mainly just the fact that he existed. "And you'll never find me. And when you find me I'll run away again. I'll keep on running away until you grow tired of it and give up." He munched on some toast. It tasted awful.

"I seem to have forgotten that my brother was five years old," Mycroft murmured. "Where on  _earth_  did I get the preposterous idea that he was sixteen?"

"All your ideas are preposterous.  _You're_ preposterous." Sherlock pushed his plate away. It was horrible when Mycroft came over and stayed over at their family house. Sherlock would have preferred it had he stayed in his evil looking office in London, doing things like controlling the security of the free world and staying away from him, and out of his life.

"You haven't finished your breakfast."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Why do you  _insist_ on being so tiresome?" he demanded. "First you send me to school-"

"You  _have_ to go to school, Sherlock,” he replied tiredly, and what did _he_ have to feel so tired about?

“Why?”

“It’s what is expected of you. _I_ went to school, our parents went to school. Besides, I doubt you’d be able to stay at home the whole day.”

" _You're_ not even here the whole day. Your statement makes absolutely no sense. It's because you're lying. If you lied in court you'd have to go to jail."

"I assure you I will not have to go to court any time soon," Mycroft replied smoothly, folding his newspaper and looking up at him. This irritated Sherlock a great deal. "Mother and Father will be home soon. I assume you'd like to leave before they're home?"

Mycroft insisted on dropping him off. Sherlock protested vehemently and left before he could say another word. One of Sherlock's greatest pleasures in life was antagonizing his brother. This provided, at least, slight entertainment in his otherwise dull life. He was going to be alarmingly early for school, but Mycroft was being his usual annoying self and if Sherlock stayed even a second more in his presence he might throw something at him.

He had to go by public transport, of course, and this was detestable. But the comic expression on Mycroft's face whenever he was unable to have his way was worth it. The utter dullness of humanity, of course, could not be ignored. Sherlock tried to amuse himself for a while by making deductions, but even this was boring. Everyone was an open book. The person in front of him was knee deep in debt, was having an affair, was going to be fired soon from his job...the girl beside him was a baby sitter and was a pathological thief, the boy on the other side of the bus had a smoking habit, fancied the girl in front of him, and was wearing someone else's shoes. It got boring after a while, and so he was relieved when he came to school.

Almost.

 

 

Sherlock did not have friends. He did not have the time for friends, nor was he inclined towards making an effort to cultivate relations with another human being. Friendship meant treating your friend like an equal, but everyone was an idiot and as Mycroft constantly told him, they were living in a world of goldfish. Besides, no one was interesting enough. His family, well, that was by birth. He had never asked for Mycroft, Mycroft just  _was_.

He walked across the well kept field towards the main building. There were a few students milling about on the expansive grounds, but not many. Anderson and his annoying girlfriend were probably not here yet, which was honestly a relief. Since, if they were, they would probably greet him with their usual display of bullying. Sherlock found this very tedious. Anderson was too much of a coward to actually pick a fight with him, so instead, he used his limited vocabulary to verbally abuse Sherlock. It was physically painful listening to him try to bully Sherlock. He might have even welcomed a fight; it would have provided some relief to the insanity inside his head. But this?  _Dull_.

Sherlock kept his head as low as he could, trying not to attract any attention. The last thing he wanted was someone trying to  _interact_ with him. He detested people on principle, so he avoided them to the best of his ability. Most people avoided him as well, but there were always those exceptions that refused to take his misanthropy at face value.

Sherlock checked his watch. Class wouldn't start for a while. What his first class was, he had no idea. That kind of information fell into the category of 'unwanted' 'useless' and 'unnecessary' and had been deleted by his brain a very long time ago. Basically, he wasn't going to attend it. Maybe if he missed enough classes they would expel him. He had been expelled before. He knew how to do it. Some might even call him an expert. Sure, his parents would pay a huge sum of money to prevent this, and that might work. But that didn't mean he would stop trying. His parents might eventually give up and he might mercifully, finally- be left to his own devices.

"Er- excuse me, mate? You know where 11B is?"

Sherlock was very rudely snapped out of his thoughts by this voice. He turned out quickly to take him in. Quite a bit shorter than Sherlock, but that wasn't surprising; Sherlock was tall for his age. A mop of dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, athletic, dressed in a new uniform. Conventionally attractive, he mused. He had taken the train that morning, evidently. He had a younger sister, too. Judging from the folds in his shirt-

"Eh. Mate. D'you think you could help me, maybe?"

Sherlock squinted at him. No one had called him 'mate' before. This boy had surprised him. No one ever surprised him. Spoke to him in actual “friendly voice”. Probably because he was a new student and therefore didn’t know Sherlock properly yet. Once people got to know Sherlock they spoke to him in a rather…different way. He seemed exactly the kind of person Sherlock should stay as far from as possible.

"Yes, of course. I'll take you there."

***

John had never seen anyone like this boy before. He looked like he had stepped out from the pages of a Shakespearean tragedy- with his high cheekbones, piercing grey blue eyes, and the pale, ghostly tint of his skin, and that shaggy head of thick curls the colour of dark chocolate. That bored, mopey expression on his face seemed to exaggerate his sharp, regal features. He was tall, thin; John could almost imagine him in breeches and doublet, maybe a riding crop by his side, but instead he was dressed in his hopelessly prosaic school uniform.

He walked quickly and surely, and John had quite a time keeping up with his pace.

"So, what's your name? I'm John, John Watson."

The boy stopped suddenly, right in the middle of that deserted corridor. The expression on his face was unreadable. He stared at John for quite a few seconds, his pale, multi coloured eyes unfathomable.

"What?" he asked.

John wasn't very sure why this simple question was so shocking, but he decided to ask him again. You never knew with these posh schools.

"Your name? You're escorting me to my classroom like a little girl, so I might as well get to know you." He grinned, hoping a bit of humour would put him at ease.

The boy looked as confused as ever. Then he cleared his throat, his adam's apple bobbing as he did so.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied, saying his name with something akin to a flourish, in that deep baritone of his.

Yep, he definitely should have existed a couple of centuries ago, with a posh old name like that. Who names their kid  _Sherlock_?

"Brilliant. Nice to meet you, Sherlock," John smiled at him, putting out his hand for a friendly handshake.

Sherlock stared at him like he was some sort of exotic plant, or a specimen under a microscope- his lips slightly parted and his eyes fixed on John's outstretched hand.

Oh-kay. This bloke was weird. John pulled his hand back and shoved it into his pocket. "Well," he said loudly. "Classroom this way, then?"

Sherlock looked a bit surprised, as his eyes suddenly darted up to John's face, as if he hadn't expected him to speak at all. Then he cleared his throat again.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah. Right this way." He resumed walking.

He stopped in front of the door to an empty classroom. John knew he was early, so he wasn't surprised that no one was there yet.

"This is it," he waved a long fingered hand at the classroom. John stared longer than necessary at those fingers.

"Well, thanks, mate," he said, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock stiffened immediately under his touch, but John decided not to dwell on that. This bloke clearly did not like him. Wow. The first day of school was going brilliant for him, wasn't it?

He sat down as Sherlock stalked away. John tried not to feel bad about his aversion. He was probably one of those popular ones. Looked it too, with his subtle elegance and his obvious distaste for John.

Someone suddenly cleared his throat. John whipped his head to the door, from where the sound had come. Sherlock's head poked out from the frame. As soon as John's eyes met him, Sherlock stepped in, standing ramrod straight, and said very clearly, like he had practised a couple of times: "It was nice to meet you too."

John stared at him. "What?"

Sherlock frowned at him, obviously not pleased with the fact that John was acting like such an idiot. "You said 'nice to meet you Sherlock.' So, I'm saying, 'nice to meet you, John.'"

John stared uncomprehendingly at him. "But I said that ages ago," he finally spluttered.

"Ye-e-es," Sherlock said slowly, rolling his eyes. "And I'm saying it ages after. What difference does it make?"

John opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally saying, "No, I guess it doesn't." Not particularly because he believed it, just that he didn't know what else to say.

"Alright, then," Sherlock said, and turned to leave.

"Hey, wait," John called after him. He turned around.

"You could, ah- sit here. Get to know each other, maybe?" John could have punched himself. Who said things like that?

Sherlock cocked his head to one side. "I already know a few things about you."

"What? What do you know?"

Sherlock walked closer to John, with a certain air of superiority, like he was about to do something that he knew he did brilliantly and he was aware of the effect it had on others.

"I know you came here by train. I know you have a younger sister who you dropped off at school before coming, I know you're a very good student, and this is the first time you've been to a private school, especially one as posh as this. I know that you have a dog, a small one- maybe a bulldog? Oh, and I'm pretty sure you played football this morning."

John stared at him. Then he laughed. "How on  _earth_ would you know that? Alright, mate, tell me who told you."

Sherlock looked severely affronted. "Nobody  _told_ me. I simply observed." He jutted his chin out superiorly.

"Alright. How did you  _observe_ then?" John sat back against his chair and looked up at him expectantly, letting the challenge lie there.

"Fairly simple, if you think about it. You were panting when I first saw you, and you're the athletic type; one look at you and that's clear enough. It's not much of a walk from the gate to the building, so I doubt that would tire you. The bottom of your trousers has a bit of mud; if you look at the colour carefully you'd know you're not from around here, since you don't find that kind here. You were panting, so you had evidently walked a bit, presumably from the station. How can I be so sure? The ticket holes still sticking to your trousers. Sister? There are two, not one. Could be your friend, but why wasn't he with you when he walked in? May have been younger than you, so maybe a different form? Not at all. Why would you ask two people for directions? Furthermore, there's a primary school five minutes from here which is evidently where you dropped her. Why couldn't it have been a brother? Then you would have brought him here, wouldn't you? And only the eleventh and twelfth form are co-educational here. You don't come from a family of a lot of means, clearly- your uniform is new, but your shoes are old- obviously hand-me-downs. If you were as rich as the other children here, you could afford new shoes. So you've been admitted here on merit, since the other alternative is money, and therefore, you're a good student. How do I know it's your first time? The fact that you're so early. If you're used to it, then you'd be as annoying as the others and come as late as possible. But you've taken the first train here, so I can tell you're excited. There are hairs on your trousers- you've got a dog, but they're below your knee so obviously a small dog. Oh, and as for football, you're wearing cleats." He took a deep breath. "Am I wrong?"

John's mouth was open. He quickly snapped it shut. "No. Mate, that was  _brilliant_."

Sherlock shrugged, making a dismissive noise. "Most would call me a piss off."

John laughed, and to his surprise, even Sherlock cracked a smile. Not a smirk, not a sneer; a genuine smile. A small one, but a smile nevertheless. Before he could say something, the bell rung, and there was the sound of shuffling feet. People would be coming to class now.

"Well, come in. Aren't you going to attend class?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Sherlock scowled, and left as dramatically as he had come.

John's first class was English. When Mr. Eccleston, his class teacher, read out the attendance sheet, he didn't even flinch when the students said Sherlock wasn't there. So he was one of  _those_ types, was he? The kind who thought they were too cool for classes? John chuckled to himself.

The students were friendly enough, and an especially pretty girl named Sarah sat next to him and offered him her notes.

After class was over, John turned around and asked his new friends about Sherlock. They stared at him. Sarah started giggling. They all laughed maliciously.

"What?" John asked, confused.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Sarah repeated. "The bloke with the cheekbones?"

That seemed like an accurate description of Sherlock, John thought. He nodded. "I guess so. Yeah."

"Well, then. Stay away from that one, then, mate," Edmund warned him.

John frowned at him. "What is that supposed to mean?" He didn't mean for it to come out so cutting.

"Oh come on. You've met him, haven't you? He seemed perfectly normal to you?" Edmund raised his eyebrows.

"Well...no," John said slowly, but he didn't see why it was so much of a big deal. Sure, Sherlock seemed a little different. Why was that so important, anyway? He didn't like these guys very much, after all. (Except Sarah. She was very pretty) He shrugged. "But he seemed nice to me."

Sarah giggled again. Okay, maybe not. "Are you sure we're talking about the same bloke? I don't know who you met, John, but Sherlock Holmes doesn't do  _nice_."

Before John could reply, someone moved quickly past him. His friends saw who it was, and exchanged knowing smirks. John turned around.  _Sherlock_.

He went right to the back of the classroom, sat down on a desk, perfectly straight, with his fingers against his lips, as if in prayer, staring transfixed at the blackboard like it as the only interesting thing in the room. He didn't give away any signs of having heard what Sarah had said, but John was fairly sure he had. No one was surprised to see him.

"It's Chemistry," Edmund explained. "He always turns up for Chemistry, that psycho."

John didn't want to listen to them anymore. He grabbed his bag, and walked right up to Sherlock's desk, and sat down in the immediate desk next to him. Sherlock gave no sign of noticing him, his eyes still fixed in front.

When John finally settled, he moved his hands away from his chin and said, "I hope you haven't come here to apologise or anything as tedious as that."

John chuckled. "No, mate. It's just that everyone in this classroom seems like an idiot."

Sherlock made a small noise of agreement. "Something I agree with, John."

John grinned at him. "So indirectly you're saying that I'm an idiot too."

Sherlock stilled momentarily. Then he spoke like he had never suffered a moment's hesitation. "I'm still making up my mind about you."

"Haven't you  _observed_ enough to know, by now?"

Sherlock looked at him. "You're making jokes."

"Yes."

"You're trying to be  _funny_."

"Uh. Yes?"

"You're not making fun  _of_ me."

"No," John said quickly. "Of course not."

Sherlock cocked his head, his gaze narrowed and rather calculating. It was odd, being looked at like that. Not entirely unpleasant, though. Sherlock seemed to have a way of looking through him. “Fascinating,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You might not be such an idiot after all.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update! I got caught up with UBS, but since that fic is almost done, (I'll wrap it up by the end of this month) I'll get back to writing As We Fall and updating this one. See you all soon!

John had thought that it would be nice to sit next to a friend during his first day of school. The friends he had made at first turned out to be insensitive berks, and Sherlock Holmes was far too interesting to ignore.

What he hadn't expected was he would have to sit next to an empty chair for the rest of the class because Sherlock would be thrown out five minutes into class.

John told himself that he probably hadn't  _meant_ to sound so obnoxious, but the look of arrogant superiority on his face clearly told him that he had. John couldn't even remember what the teacher had said, but Sherlock had unceremoniously corrected him, called him an 'idiot' and demanded to know how he had become a teacher in the first place.

John also had a feeling that this was a regular occurrence because all the teacher had said was, "Mr. Holmes, if you find my class so tiresome, do us all a favor and step out."

"I'd be  _delighted,_ " Sherlock had drawled, and with a particular look of disgust that would only look good on his face, he had walked out.

Sarah had turned to him with a look that clearly said,  _Didn't I tell you, John? Didn't I_ tell  _you he was a psycho?_

But John didn't care.

After class was over, he checked his schedule and was glad to find he had a free period. Brilliant. He'd go look for Sherlock. John wasn't entirely sure  _why_ he was doing this, but there was something strangely endearing in having a boy who thought everyone was an idiot tell him that he, in fact, was not. But how did his opinion matter? John was aware he wasn't an idiot. And secondly, all the signs seemed to scream  _Stay away from this psycho!_ But John didn't think he was a psycho. John thought he was different, and different wasn't always bad.

 

***

 

John Watson was a conundrum. And of course, common sense would dictate that Sherlock keep his distance from anything that resembled a paradox. Paradoxes were silly, and not worth wasting your time on. But then, he had known John Watson for all of ten minutes and he had already proven himself to be an exception. Sherlock found exceptions tedious; they were unsightly blots on the fluidity of a proven concept, and made matters much worse. But (ugh, Sherlock groaned inwardly. John Watson was full of 'buts') this boy hadn't made anything worse. Yet.

Sherlock had found a ring buried deep in the dirt, and was examining it closely, trying to deduce something about its previous owner. It was hardly challenging, but Sherlock's mind was stagnating into the pile of goo it became whenever he was faced with those tiresome lessons, and he needed something to get those wheels running again. It would have been preferable to plop it under the microscope back at home, (he considered simply pocketing it and going to his lab right then and there)

He was in the middle of deciding the owner's probable age when he heard the crunching of leaves under someone's foot.

Sherlock turned around to find John Watson frowning at him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, sounding brusque and rude. He regretted the tone of his voice, but it wasn't if John would actually be hurt by it. People were only hurt by people they liked, and it was a stretch of the imagination that John had  _anything_ bordering on liking for Sherlock.  _Sentiment_ , Sherlock thought distastefully.

John raised a blond eyebrow at him. "I came looking for you, actually," he explained, walking up to him. Sherlock noticed how his hair was a bit more dishevelled than it was since the morning, and his left collar was slightly turned up at the edges. He had been looking for him for a while, then.

"Looking for me?" Sherlock echoed incredulously. " _Why_?"

John's lips quirked up in a smile. "You're forgetting you said 'nice to meet you, John,' to me. You haven't met me at all." He sat down beside him. Usually Sherlock detested when people invaded his personal space, but he found that he was not finding this position as unpleasant as he might have.

"What are  _you_ doing?" John asked, curiously eyeing the ring in Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock weighed the question in his head. His mind zoomed into overdrive, where he imagined what would be the probable result of telling this fairly normal boy that he was crouching in an obscure corner of the grounds, deducing a ring he had found half-buried in the dirt as an alternative to getting high.

" _What the fuck?" John would exclaim._ (Sherlock felt fairly certain that John was the kind of boy who swore openly. Or at least, the situation would prompt him too. Most situations with Sherlock caused people to swear)  _"That’s really fucking weird, mate."_ Then he would give him a look of disgust and walk away, and the last thing Sherlock would remember would be the sound of the leaves crunching underfoot as John Watson ran away from him.

But, as he had told himself before, John didn't like him, and at the most, probably found him vaguely interesting, so what did he have to lose? However, there was that time in the morning when he had called him 'brilliant'. Did people usually-

"Sherlock? Hello? Anybody in there?"

Sherlock rapidly blinked a couple of times and realised John was waving a hand in front of his face.  _Idiot_ , he chastised himself. Now there was an even smaller chance of John liking him.

"I found this ring in the dirt," Sherlock told him, holding it up to eye level for him to see. "And I can tell that this ring is fairly new, it belongs to a woman, and it was thrown away because of an unhappy love affair. I was bored. Life generally bores me.

"How the  _hell_ did you find all that out from one ring?" John's blue eyes were widened in shock. Nice colour, those eyes- dark blue, kind of like sapphires-

Sherlock cleared his throat, banishing those thoughts immediately.  _What in the world was wrong with him? Was he actually thinking about the colour of John Watson's eyes?_

"Well, the fact that this ring is pretty new you can see from its sheen. It hasn't been buried very long, since it wasn't buried too deep and the metal is still strong. You see all these scratches along the rim- she probably keeps it with a whole assortment of other things which doesn't exactly point to someone who cares a great deal for her marriage. Then you see the difference between the outside of the ring, and the inside- it's been removed regularly because it's cleaner on the inside than the outside. It hasn't been removed to clean, obviously- so why would anyone attempt to remove the proof of a marriage? Affair. Young woman- clearly- look at the design of the ring. It can't be an old woman because a. It's unlikely she would be having an affair, and b. Even if she was, she wouldn't come all the way here to throw it away. Older women are more likely to keep it locked up somewhere. And it wouldn't be that scratched, because it's unlikely she would indulge in a great deal of activity. Unhappy, because why else would the need to throw it away arise in the first place?"

John gulped. "How can you tell it's a woman? Maybe a bloke fancies that sort of a thing."

Sherlock shrugged. "Balance of probability."

John shook his head in amazement. Well, at least Sherlock assumed it was amazement. Any other emotion (like shock at his absurdity, for instance) would be incredibly embarrassing, and Sherlock might have to bury  _himself_ in the dirt.

"God, that’s brilliant." He took the ring from Sherlock and stared at it. "All that from a ring!"

Sherlock felt a funny sensation in his stomach. No one had ever praised him for his deduction before. To hear someone say something  _nice_ about the one talent he had (playing the violin didn't count, that was far too mundane) made him feel...different.

"Well, the fact that it's been buried hides a lot as well, it's fairly simple to deduce the rest-"

"Oh shut up," John muttered, "You don't have to be all modest around me. You're not the modest sort, I can tell. And that's fine. When you've got a brain like that, well. Why should you be?" He grinned.

There it was, that funny feeling. John was right, he  _wasn't_ modest. So why should he try to show John that he was? Pretence was stupid. There was no point trying to be something he wasn't around John, he could pick it up. John wasn't an idiot. Well, he probably  _was_ , but not so much as the rest. And that made all the difference, Sherlock supposed. And what was more, John had told him that it was  _alright_. To not be modest. That was another first. This was a morning of firsts, Sherlock thought- and all of them brought about by this blonde haired, blue eyed, not-an-idiot boy sitting beside him.

***

John was being an idiot.

What must Sherlock think of him? He sounded like a gushing teenager when he praised him. Sherlock must be used to that sort of thing, right? But even as he said it, he realised that didn't exactly ring true. The hesitant look in his grey-blue eyes when he spoke, the slightest blush that graced his skin when John said those things- Sherlock probably had never been spoken to in this way before.

"I suppose," he said slowly, in that rumbling baritone. Even that voice seemed to match him- deep, rich, exactly what a prince from a medieval ballad would sound like. "But I regret to inform you, John, most people don't find me as brilliant as you do." He said it simply, like it was of no real consequence, but to John, the words were a punch in the gut. Surely,  _surely_  someone had told Sherlock how talented he was? He absent mindedly fingered the rim of his shirt cuff. John couldn't help but notice the faint marks on his pale skin; innumerable scars and tiny puncture holes...a dark thought crept up inside him, but he banished it as soon as he came. Even if that was the case, it was too soon to confront him about. He might get offended and walk away, and John would never speak to this brilliant boy again.

"Well, maybe it's because of your penchant for showing off," John laughed.

"I  _am_ a show off," Sherlock replied doggedly. "That's what we do. And besides, didn't you say that with a mind like mine, I didn't have to be modest?" Then he pouted spectacularly with that bow-shaped mouth of his, and John could have laughed at how ridiculous he looked. Sherlock Holmes was undoubtedly  _very much_ in the habit of pouting; that much was clear.

"Oh, so you  _have_ been listening to me, then?" he grinned. "Alright, but maybe you should just show off in front of me, since I'm not likely to bite your head off about it."

Sherlock looked surprised; his pale eyes wide. "You're not?"

"'Course not. Haven't I already told you that I think you're brilliant?"

He nervously fiddled with his maroon tie. "You do?"

John rolled his eyes. "That's quite enough. Are you fishing for compliments, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Well, I don't get many, so, I thought I might as well get some from you, since they're probably the only ones I'm likely to get."

There he went again; dropping things like that on him like they were commonplace, and ordinary; but John couldn't help but wonder about all the emotion laced in those words; even though Sherlock's pale face remained inexpressive, the only colour the grey-blue in his eyes and his dark chocolate curls. How could someone gifted with such a mind be so riddled in self-doubt? Sure, the bloke pretended to be an arrogant, obnoxious arsehole; and it some ways he definitely was. But John suspected that beneath all that bravado, he didn't know what to make of himself.

"Then yes, of course. You're brilliant. You make these- what do you call them- assumptions?"

"Deductions," Sherlock corrected, with a dramatic roll of his eyes.  _This_ , John was sure, was something he did very often. "They're only assumption if you're  _assuming_ , John. But I'm fairly confident that they're facts."

" _Deductions_ ," John muttered. "You do realise I'm complimenting you?" Sherlock gave him another one his almost-smiles, the one that transformed the cold reason on his face to something human and warm. "So, as I was saying- you make them in the blink of an eye, and it's really something. But what I don't get is, you're so smart- you could easily be top of the class. And yet here you are, hiding in the woods and refusing to attend classes."

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Lessons are the bane of my existence, John. What's the  _point_ of knowing the things they teach you? My mind would probably delete them within a second. How does it matter to me if-"

"Wait, hold up." John held up a finger. " _Delete_? How the hell do you  _delete_ something from your mind?"

Sherlock looked at him with the expression John knew was his usual one, within hardly an hour of knowing him; the  _my god you're such an idiot why am I even wasting my time with you_  look.

"Ordinary people fill their minds with all kinds of rubbish. Your mind is like an attic, John- and a fool fills it with every lumber he comes across. Which is why the information which may be useful to him get crowded out, or is mixed up with the idiocy  _he_ considers important. Your mind isn't elastic, you know. It is of the highest importance, then, John-  _not_ to have the useless things elbow out the important ones." He said it in that vaguely bored tone of his- and John might have found it annoying if it belonged to anyone else. But on Sherlock, well. On Sherlock it seemed right at home, and imagining him using a friendly, upbeat voice was almost laughable.

"And you think lessons are useless, do you?"

"Obviously," Sherlock replied simply. "What the deuce is to me? What do I care who the president is, or when the war was fought, or that the sun goes around the earth-"

"The earth goes around the  _sun_ ," John corrected, staring at him.

"So it does," Sherlock said impatiently. "What on earth will I do knowing that? If we went around the moon, or round and round the garden like a bloody teddy bear- what difference would it make to me? The only thing that matters is the work; and without it my brain rots." He finished with a huff, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at John, a challenge in those eyes of his.

John gaped at him. "But that's primary school stuff!" he spluttered. " _How_ can you not know that?"

Sherlock scowled at him. "Are you not listening to me?" he demanded. "I  _told_ you. Even if I did know, I've probably deleted it."

Then John started laughing. He couldn't help it. He couldn't believe how perfectly absurd Sherlock was; and how strangely endearing he was finding it. This boy was  _ridiculous_.

"What? What is it?" he demanded, looking at him with a strange look of fear. John stopped laughing immediately; well at least he  _tried_. Tiny spurts of mirth still burst from his lips.

"Nothing, nothing," he reassured him, wiping away a tear. "God damn it, Sherlock Holmes, you're ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?" Sherlock repeated, gaping at him comically, bow-shaped lips wide in shock. "You think I'm  _ridiculous_? And just a moment ago you said I was brilliant."

"Oh, you're brilliant, you are. And that's one of the things that make you so ridiculous. I can't  _believe_ you don't know the earth goes around the sun."

Sherlock huffed. "Are we really going to talk about that again? I thought we had exhausted this topic."

"Exhausted it?" John laughed. "Mate, I've just found the gold mine for teasing you. You wait- I'm going to make a list of all the stuff you have no clue about and remind you of it every minute."

Sherlock threw him another dramatic eye roll. "How perfectly tedious," he muttered. "I'm going to start calling you an idiot again."

"Call me what you want, Sherlock. Doesn't mean I'll stop."

"Whatever," he replied, flopping back against the grass. The word sounded strangely juvenile on his lips; like it was odd hearing him say anything informal.

That was when the bell rang, and John heard the faint ring in the distance. He looked at Sherlock, his slender body stretched on the grass, hands thrown out on either side, slim fingers curled up, his shaggy hair messy.

"You're not going to come for the next class, are you?"

"Absolutely not. I am currently of the opinion that you're not an idiot, John. Do try to keep that image."

John smiled. "So what are you going to do until then? Hang out with some other friend?"

"I don't have friends."

John stared at him. Jesus, he needed to stop  _saying_ thing like that. He might end up hugging him or something. But he couldn't possibly be serious. No friends? At all? How on earth was that even possible? Then flashes of the day past before his eyes; that boy at the steps with the frizzy haired girl; Sarah and Edmund with their malicious laughter; and last of all Sherlock himself with his firm belief that nobody liked him. Of course. They probably thought he was some sort of freak; and his brilliance was the result of a defect in his brain, or some such rubbish as that. Of  _course_ no one had befriended him, and that made John incredibly angry. How could no one have noticed what a...what a... _genius_ he was? That was probably  _why_ Sherlock was so rude and snarky; he hadn't had an opportunity to be nice to anyone. John refused to entertain the possibility that Sherlock was at fault here, and even though that seemed like a biased thought (and John prided himself on being fair) he couldn't help it.

"I'm your friend, aren't I?" he suddenly said.

Sherlock whipped his head around to look at him, and it seemed like an eternity; as those grey blue orbs searched his face, the expression in them inscrutable.

Then he turned away. "You should get to class."

John wanted to say something. John wanted to shout at him for being such an idiot, but then, there was always the possibility that this boy didn't like him, wasn't there? Everyone couldn't like him.

So he left.

 

***

Sherlock watched him go, his mind a whirlpool of thoughts, a thousand different deductions, assumptions, ideas, going round and round and round in his head, at lightning speed and blinding force. Sherlock clutched his curls in frustration; John Watson was so  _confusing_.

John Watson who said he was brilliant.

John Watson who thought he was ridiculous.

John Watson who had said that he was his  _friend_.

Surely Sherlock hadn't heard correctly. The other alternative was that John was terminally ill, with a tumour growing in his brain; tumours caused personality changes. This seemed more probable than the possibility that he had interest in being Sherlock's friend.  _Nobody_  had ever offered friendship before, and Sherlock had never considered anyone to be worthy of that position anyway. Friends were useless. End of story.

And here was this..this... _paradox_. Innumerable facts and data, inevitably adding up to John Watson. It didn't make sense. What could John possibly see in him? John was the sort of friendly, kind person that everybody liked; what could he possibly want with  _Sherlock_?

His head was spinning. And he felt strangely alone; the emptiness beside him where there had been a living, breathing person mere moments ago seemed like a physical thing. Then he told him to snap out of it. He was nobody's friend. And certainly not John's.  _Sentiment_.

He needed...he needed...he needed a smoke.

Sherlock dug his hands into his pockets, searching for the paper box of cigarettes and removed one, and took out his lighter. The lighter was actually Mycroft's. How he had risen to a position of such power in the government when he couldn't stop something as insignificant as a pick pocket, Sherlock had no idea.

Then he lit his cigarette and took a long drag. Oh, much better.  _So much better_. This, at least, was normal. This he was used to, and this he could handle. He breathed in the smoke, blowing out as it filled him from inside, feeling, maybe, not as better as he should have, but at least, now he could concentrate on the smoke rings wafting above him and not a certain pair of deep blue eyes.

 _Damn it_.

If a teacher found him here, smoking on the campus, he'd be expelled for sure. They'd say stupid things like 'he's a bad influence on the other students', 'one rotten apple ruins the whole cart', 'if he'd only stop being so disrespectful, Mr. Holmes,' and his parents would nod and agree that their son was a bitter disappointment to them. Then he'd be thrown out. Or maybe his parents would pay some more money and insist they keep him there. 'Beat him, if you must,' his father might say. 'Yes, yes,' his mother would join in. 'Anything to keep him in line.' 'You can understand what it would be for a family in our position to have this blotched all over the papers- we're willing to make any arrangements to keep our agreement in place..."

Sherlock tapped the cigarette and watched the ash falling off the tip.

But if he got expelled, he might never see John Watson again, now would he? That idea seemed far more unpleasant than it should have. He eyed the cigarette in his hands. It was almost over, anyway. He stubbed it beneath his foot.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New week, new update! The next chapter is pretty much a filler, so it'll also be up in a few days.  
> For those of you who are following my omegaverse fic, it will also be updated sometime in May. (hopefully. but real life pressures do get a bit much, sometimes)

Sherlock stayed underneath that tree for a long time; itching to light another cigarette but worried that if he smoked too much John would smell it on his breath or his clothes and disapprove of him and maybe never speak to him again. This seemed like an incredibly abhorrent possibility; and what he found even more abhorrent was the fact that he was taking such an  _interest_ in him. He ignored these thoughts, however, because what if he deluded himself into thinking that John Watson himself was abhorrent and decided not to speak to him? Sherlock did not trust his brilliance at the moment.

So instead after three classes were over, he went in search of John. It was lunch break, so John would probably be in the cafeteria...eating. Like a normal person. Was it really fair for Sherlock to impose his presence on him? Sherlock began nervously fiddling with his shirt cuffs while he walked towards the cafeteria, and that was when he noticed that his sleeves had been folded carelessly to his elbows and he groaned inwardly.  _Bloody hell_. John must have noticed. More reasons to run away and  _not_ force John to endure him.

Nevertheless, he  _did_ reach the cafeteria, and he got several glances from the students; some of them curious, some hostile, but most of them weary. It didn't take long for him to pluck out John Watson from the multitude of idiots sitting there discussing idiotic things; he was just that  _noticeable_. If there were a thousand John Watsons sitting there in the Hall, Sherlock would be able to point at  _his_ John Watson. Well, not  _his,_ because John didn't belong to him, he didn't mean it quite like that...(or did he?) Ugh.

That was when Sherlock stopped, and decided not to go to John; because he was laughing and talking to other people; and John looked quite  _happy_ and Sherlock felt this sudden fear that if he went there and stood in front of him, that smile would disappear, and if,  _if_ there was disappointment on that cheery face, Sherlock would not be able to take it. It had taken a great deal of effort to actually come here...into the presence of all these... _people_. So Sherlock stared at John for a few more seconds; and the group of laughing people around him, and then he turned around, and walked out.

 _Of course, of course OF COURSE_ , Sherlock thought frustratedly, almost venomously to himself, how could he have expected anything else? Those forty five minutes in the woods had been a once-in-a-lifetime thing, a bloody  _exception_ ; and Sherlock was a fool to think they would ever happen again. He walked out, hands digging determinedly into his pockets, his fingers brushing the packet of cigarettes, and he finally didn't care enough to not light them then and there, but that was when he was interrupted by an exceedingly annoying voice that said, "Look who it is. It's Freak." Then Anderson blocked his path, grinning almost sleazily at him, apparently very pleased with himself for recognizing Sherlock on sight.

Any other day, he would have gladly stood there, listened to his myriad results, and then retaliated in kind; because it meant that he got to insult him with the least bit of effort. But today, right now, Sherlock was not in the mood, and if Anderson annoyed him, he might just knock out a few teeth, and this time he wouldn't hesitate because he didn't care anymore about what John would think of him.

"Anderson, please don't be an idiot. I know it takes you an enormous amount of effort, but do try. Now get out of my way."

Anderson just grinned back. "We saw you in the woods with that new boy. Didn't know you were a poof."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. His insults were getting worse by the  _minute_. "I don't have time for this," he muttered, and side tracked him. This time his idiotic girlfriend blocked him.

"He teach you how to shag, Freak? Didn't know you even knew what that was." She crossed her arms and smiled maliciously.

"If you've got nothing to discuss except my sex life, I pity you," Sherlock deadpanned. "I would have thought your own would have kept you occupied, considering you spent the last class performing fellatio on Anderson. Or scrubbing the classroom floors. In your defence, you'd be better suited for the latter."

Sadie (or was it Sally?) was trying very hard to maintain a straight face but this was evidently a great feat for her. Anderson, on the other hand, had gone as red as a fire truck and was quite possibly thinking of a clever come back. He was failing. Obviously.

"You little perv," Sally finally seethed. "Is that what you do when you miss classes? Spy on people?"

Sherlock exhaled loudly. "If you were a particularly interesting patch of mould, maybe," he shrugged. "Unfortunately the only thing 'particular' about you is your idiocy, which you're displaying with alarming blatancy; what with this preposterous idea that I am, even vaguely interested in your lives. So do yourselves a favour; and, excuse my eloquence;  _fuck off_."

Sherlock was about to push past them, when he heard someone say, quite distinctly, "Is everything alright here?'

 

***

John had been annoyed. And this was saying something, because he was actually a very calm and level headed person. But Sherlock Holmes  _was annoying him_. Now, John wasn't arrogant enough to believe that Sherlock would like him as soon as he set eyes on him, but he  _knew_ he had been perfectly nice to that bloke, but then he refused to acknowledge his offer of friendship, and then he missed  _three bloody classes_. How was that bloke still in school? John had hoped (and he was thoroughly annoyed with  _himself_ for hoping) that Sherlock would at least come for lunch. But no. He hadn't. He had half a mind to go and find him in the woods and drag him here and make him eat something and demand to know what was so terribly wrong with John Watson that he couldn't accept him as a friend when he  _clearly didn't have any_.

But then he told himself that he (Sherlock) was being an obnoxious git and why inflate that head even more by begging him for his presence? Yes, it was true that all of a sudden everyone had seemed terribly boring and dull after those forty five minutes with Sherlock; Sherlock with his elegant other-worldliness and bright eyes and sharp, harsh edges and lines, Sherlock with his dramatic cheekbones and that low, rumbling baritone of a voice; everyone he saw after that just paled by comparison. But he sat still and talked with them, and refused to think about him.

But when the bell rang and he had to go for class, like an idiot, he went and wrapped a sandwich in a napkin and put it in his pocket because he didn't like the idea of him missing lunch, and even though he hated that he was doing it, he couldn't  _bloody well help it_.

When John stepped outside, however, on to the lawns, he noticed Sherlock, alright, but he also saw two other people with him; a boy and the girl. They looked furious, and John didn't find it surprising, because they were with Sherlock; but he had got Sherlock a sodding sandwich, and he was going to force feed it to him if he had to. So he walked up to them, and he could  _feel_ the displeasure radiating off Sherlock.

"... _fuck off_."

"Is everything alright here?" he asked, slightly worried, because he hadn't heard Sherlock utter an expletive that viciously since he had come. He hoped, for the sake of his sanity, that these two weren't bullying him, because he would hate getting into a brawl on the first day of school itself.

Three heads swivelled in his direction. Sherlock was the first to speak.

"John," he rumbled, frowning at him, his lips slightly parting at the sight of him.

"Come here to pick your little boyfriend up?" the girl with the curly hair said scornfully.

"What?" John looked at her, his eyes narrowing.

"I expected you to try not to be an idiot in front of the new boy, Sally," Sherlock quipped. "It was your one chance to build a respectful image. Pity." He shook his head in mock disapproval. John couldn't help smiling at him.

"Cheers, mate."

The boy scowled at him. "The fact that the only friend the 'new boy' had made is you brings a few doubts to my head."

Sherlock looked unfazed with this thinly veiled insult, and was probably going to say something along the lines of 'You're an idiot' but John felt a sudden flare of anger and snapped at him, "I don't think it's any business of yours who I'm friends with. And the fact that you have nothing better to do than make stupid assumptions, well- that brings a few doubts to  _my_ head. And honestly, what was it that you had said, Sherlock?  _Fuck off_."

Both the boy and girl made utterly scandalized expressions, in too much of a shock to form a proper reply.

"Indeed. Come along, John." Sherlock walked away, leaving both of them glowering after him.

"You could do better than him, mate!" the boy called after him. John rolled his eyes.

"Who were they?" John asked, as they involuntarily began moving towards the woods.

"What?" Sherlock turned around to look at him, as if just noticing his presence. He licked his lips. "Idiots. Just idiots. Don’t concern yourself with them.” He fiddled with his shirt cuffs; John had realized they were a nervous habit. But what he had to be nervous about, he didn't know.

"Sherlock, you think  _everyone's_ an idiot."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed.

John rolled his eyes. "I'm asking you for their names, incidentally."

"The boy is Anderson, and the girl is Sally...something." He waved his hands dismissively. He needed to stop doing that. John found those fingers...distracting.

"Oh!" John exclaimed. "I forgot to give you this."

He stopped, putting his hand into his pocket to extract the sandwich, and he held it out to Sherlock, who was frowning at him, those grey-blue eyes confused.

"What is  _that_?" Sherlock asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Food," John answered. "You didn't come for lunch."

"Yes," Sherlock said slowly, still staring at John's hand, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, trying to deduce the bloody  _sandwich_. He was evidently trying to figure out  _why_ John was giving him food. God, for a brilliant bloke...

"You didn't come for lunch, so you probably didn't  _eat_ so, I thought..." John trailed off, feeling a bit confused himself. Maybe this was bad idea. Maybe Sherlock would just think he was weird and run away from him.

"You brought me sandwich," he finally settled upon stating, his voice low and calculating.

"Yes..."

"Because I didn't come for lunch."

"Yes."

"That was..." Sherlock opened and closed his mouth several times, " _Nice_ of you." He said the word like it felt unfamiliar on his lips.

"It’s just a sandwich, mate. Here." He took Sherlock hand and placed the sandwich in his palm. His skin was cool to touch.

"But I'm not hungry."

"Eat the sodding sandwich, Sherlock."

"But I don't—'

" _Eat it_."

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, and he looked slightly fearful. His expression was almost comical. "Okay," he obeyed, unwrapping it gingerly. He took a careful bite, watching John wearily.

John must have looked pleased to see him eating, because even Sherlock smiled slightly as he chewed. "You look happy," he observed.

"Yes. Don't take this personally, but you're as thin as a rake. You could do with the extra calories."

"Digestion slows me down, John," he said grandly, sitting down underneath another tree.

"Slows you down? For  _what_?"

Sherlock stared at him, appalled that John was asking such an idiotic question. " _Thinking_ ," he replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Eating food prevents you from...thinking?" John stared at him. Then he asked himself why he was so surprised. This was  _Sherlock_  they were talking about, for Christ's sake. Of course he would think the idea of something as mundane as  _food_  to be an obstacle to the workings of his brilliant brain.

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Sherlock stuffed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth, making a particularly pained face, and then swallowed it with great difficulty.

"Easy with the dramatics, yeah?" John muttered, standing up and brushing the grass off his trousers. "It's not poison."

Sherlock looked offended. "I'm not being  _dramatic_. And where are you going?"

"To class." John held up his wrist so that Sherlock could see his silver wrist watch. "I'm already late. What with ensuring that you don't waste away from lack of food."

He rolled his eyes. "The human body can go for  _plenty_ of time without food, John. I doubt I would have  _wasted away_  within two hours."

John put up his hands in surrender. "Yeah, alright. Are you sure you don't want to come to class?"

"Do we have biology?"

"No, English."

"Then the answer is yes, I am sure."

"Why would you come for biology?" John asked, amused.

"Mr. Mason said he would bring frogs for the next experiment. I would have—"

"Stolen a couple of frogs," John finished, trying to suppress a smile. "Am I wrong?" He mimicked the same tone Sherlock had used while using the same phrase that very morning. He couldn't resist. It was so  _easy_ teasing Sherlock.

Sherlock gaped at him, that ridiculous bow of a mouth open wide. "I wouldn't do that," he muttered sheepishly, biting his lip, looking kind of adorable. (and guilty)

"Yeah, you would," this time John laughed. "See you later. Don't go home without me."

He left for class.

***

_Don't go home without me don't go home without me don't go home without me don't go home..._

John's parting words swirled round and round in Sherlock's head, giving him that strange, fuzzy feeling he was becoming alarmingly familiar with, and which he was learning to associate with John Watson. Sherlock was confused again, and he  _hated_ being confused, because the purpose of his life was to know everything important, so he wouldn't have to face being  _confused_. Life was an equation, and Sherlock knew how to solve it, but then an unexpected variable had been dropped into it out of nowhere, and now neither sides of the equation matched.

This was  _detestable_.

Sherlock decided that he sort of kind of liked John Watson. Because this surprised him a great deal, he also decided to make a list to figure out  _why_ he liked him; this would make things easier to understand

  1. John Watson had called him 'brilliant'
  2. John Watson had gotten him a sandwich. ( A terrible sandwich, obviously; and he wasn't even remotely hungry, but he had noticed that Sherlock hadn't  _eaten_ ; his  _parents_ never remembered to feed him)
  3. John Watson knew that he would steal frogs from Mr. Mason's class and he hadn't been disgusted, abhorred, or shocked.
  4. John Watson had nice eyes.



The fourth point was irrelevant, and besides, it wasn't even true (or so Sherlock told himself, because well, his eyes weren't  _terrible_ , but they weren't that fantastic either, they were just a pair of fairly normal dark blue eyes which were, in fact a nice shade, but how did it matter anyway.); it was merely there for the purpose of balance; so that there would be an even number of things on the list.

But the rest of them were true enough, and Sherlock decided to be content with that. So he stacked it into an obscure corner of his Mind Palace, so that if he ever began to second guess his judgment again, he could refer to those four points. The fourth was irrelevant, of course. But it was always useful to remember.

Just as John had demanded, Sherlock did not, indeed, go home without him. He slung his bag over his shoulder and went to 11B where John had had his tedious class, to call him and ask him if he would like Sherlock to walk him to the station.

But when he got there, he found John leaning against the wall outside the classroom, talking to a girl.

Sherlock recognized her only vaguely; he knew she was part of this class, and he knew there was nothing particularly interesting or compelling about her, but John was obviously a terrible judge of character, because he was laughing at something she had said and she was just ceaselessly  _touching_ him and Sherlock couldn't stand it.

He was being crazy, irrational, and completely illogical, and more importantly, he was being an idiot. He could easily just stand there and wait politely for John to finish whatever inane conversation he would be having with that airhead of a girl; but at that moment, Sherlock figured that the only alternative was to go home without him. He tried not to feel guilty. It was tougher than he thought it would be. He considered going back, and even turned around a few times, but then that girl's stupid face would swim in front of his eyes and he would turn right around and keep walking.

He noticed a swanky black car parked at the gate in front, and even though everyone in this school probably had a swanky black car,  _this_ one was evidently Mycroft's. Obviously. He had retaliated to Sherlock's refusal to be dropped off with this forceful picking up. Sherlock could have run away, and taken the bus, or a cab, or  _anything_ , but he didn't want to run into John again and he had an odd feeling that the car would trail behind him.

So he stomped to the car and opened the door with far more force than necessary, and tumbled into the backseat.

"You're being tiresome again," he mumbled, tucking his knees under his chin and wrapping his arms around his calves.

"I am under no doubt that I am," Mycroft replied smoothly, like he always did. He had a bloody answer for everything. "How was school?"

Sherlock flopped back dramatically, closing his eyes. "Tedious."

This wasn't completely true. School had been bloody fantastic today, until, well...well, that last bit had messed things up.

Mycroft locked eyes with him in rear view mirror, his pale eyes scrutinizing him. Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow. "What?" he snapped.

Mycroft shrugged. "Nothing. You missed class today again, Sherlock."

"If you wouldn't insist on putting me there on the first place, we wouldn't even be  _having_ this conversation." He loosened his tie, tugging almost forcefully on the thin scrap of material.

"Sherlock, let's not rehash this. You have to go to school." The car swerved left, entering the tree lined avenue that led into their estate.

Sherlock stared sullenly out the window, catching only a fleeting glance of a girl leaning against the fence in front of one of the houses.

"Stop the car," he ordered.

Mycroft pushed the brakes. "What  _is_ it, Sherlock?" he asked, tiredly.

"I need to get out. I've seen someone. I'll come home later."

Mycroft's lips turned down at the corners in disapproval. "Is it that Adler girl?"

Sherlock gave a odd, one shouldered shrug. "Maybe. Or maybe it's a serial murderer, and we're running off to plan a killing spree. I'll see you later, Mycroft." He opened the door and stepped out. Mycroft only sighed, exceptionally irritated, and drove off.

Irene smirked at him as he walked up to her.

She leaned her shoulder against the fence, her bright red lipsticked lips turning up in a smile. If you looked at Sherlock and Irene standing next to each other; you could almost mistake them for siblings. The same high cheekbones, the silvery blue eyes, the dark hair, the pale skin; the regal good looks. But whereas Sherlock would have looked at place between the pages of a romantic sonnet, being recited against the background of Vivaldi, Irene Adler had been crafted to be the heroine of an erotic novel, amidst loud rock music and guitar riffs.

Irene was dressed in tiny denim shorts, her slim legs ending in a pair of scruffy black boots, her cropped tank top exposing several inches of her stomach, and the sparkly diamond pierced in her navel; a cigarette was gripped lightly between her fingers, and she puffed out some smoke slowly, right in Sherlock's face.

"Hello, darling," she drawled. "Come to see me?" She was a few years older than him, maybe eighteen or nineteen, an inch or two shorter than Sherlock.

Sherlock leaned against the fence behind her. "I wanted to speak to you."

She raised a dark eyebrow. "Speak to me? What about, love?"

She inhaled some more smoke.

"I met a boy today," he murmured, stroking his bottom lip with one long, index finger.

She grinned. "A boy? What kind of boy?"

"That's what I'm confused about. I don't know what kind of boy he is."

"Sherlock Holmes, confused? That's a first."

She stepped in front of him this time, uncomfortably close, like always; plucking the cigarette from her mouth and slipping it inside Sherlock's lips. It was still slightly wet at the tip. "Have a smoke and clear your head." He looked down at her, the cigarette dangling from his mouth; he could smell her familiar scent; expensive perfume mixed with cheap alcohol.

He laced it between his fingers and inhaled. "I've been trying to," he explained. "It's been proving difficult."

Her grey eyes sparkled with amusement. "What's his name?"

"John. John Watson," Sherlock said the same slowly, relishing the feel of it on his tongue.  _John John John John._

"Mmm," she trailed her index finger down his chest. "Such a mundane name. Not quite as posh as Sherlock Holmes."

"It's a good name," Sherlock stiffened under her touch, slightly uncomfortable, like he always was; but she didn't notice or care. She rarely did. But she was one of the few people who didn't run away from him on sight, and she didn't make small talk. So he tolerated her. "Steady. Solid."

"Good looking bloke?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I guess." He ran a hand through his curls. "He's not even  _that_ remarkable," he said loudly. "And I've just known him for a day. I'm being an idiot."

"Darling. We're all idiots when it comes to love," she removed the cigarette from his lips, inhaled, and popped it back inside his mouth.

"Who said anything about _love_?" he scoffed.

 _One nice word about someone and now he was in love? Irene Adler was more of an idiot than he thought_.

She blew out the smoke, staring lazily at him. "What do you want from me, Sherlock? Advice? Stop being a prat and be nice to him."

"I was  _very_ nice to him."

Irene laughed. "I doubt that, darling. You were probably nice- _er_ than you are to most people, and because you're so much of a wanker, I don't think that's any accomplishment."

Sherlock scowled. "I'm not a wanker."

"Oh, yes you are." She ran a thumb down the side of his face, dragging down the corner of his bottom lip. "Now, run along home, Holmes. And give Johnny Boy a call."

This time Sherlock slipped the cigarette into her lips. "I don't have his number," he argued.

"Is that going to be a problem for you?" he pale eyes twinkled.

Sherlock licked his lips. "No, not really."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"Fine."

Then she gripped his tie in her hands, pulling him down, and smacked a kiss on his cheek.

"Such a tease, Sherlock. I hope you put those fantastic lips to use and kiss this boy you're so confused about." She smirked.

The sentence caused Sherlock's heart to make an involuntarily leap inside his chest, but he ignored it. "Don't be ridiculous," he muttered, wiping the lipstick off his cheek.

"Sherlock Holmes, you just ran out of your brother's posh car to tell me that you made a friend today," She pulled his hand away from his face and dragged her own fingers across  his cheek instead, making quick work of the red smudge. " _You're_ the one being ridiculous. Now go home."

And Sherlock did go home after that, smelling of Irene's perfume and her second hand smoke, thinking about how she had proposed he put his 'bloody fantastic' lips to good use. He wondered idly if John thought his lips were bloody fantastic. Then he started thinking about  _John's_ lips and realised  _they_ were bloody fantastic and he decided to add it to the list of reasons he liked him.

Then he shook his head to rid himself of those sinful thoughts.

Irene had been right, after all. He  _was_ being ridiculous.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Go on," he encouraged, leaning against the wall leisurely. "I've got all day."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just my teenage sons being clueless. enjoy!

John wasn't particularly interested in what Sarah had to say. He hadn't liked her much since her snarky comment about Sherlock, but he didn't want to be rude, either, so he obliged and spoke to her, about stupid things like mid-term dances or whether he played rugby or football. In response to her question, actually, he played both but enjoyed rugby more. But he didn't reply because he didn't think giving her an answer was a necessity.

But the minutes kept on going by and John gave up to look from the corner of his eye or out the window, whilst pretending to do something completely different, because clearly Sherlock was nowhere around. Then he gave some excuse to Sarah which he couldn't even remember himself, because it was probably as idiotic as their conversation had been. Then he left, and he walked down the corridor to see if Sherlock was lurking in some corner of a locker, or a classroom, or maybe even the washroom-  _anywhere_ , in fact, but he couldn't find him at all. He asked a whole bunch of people whether they had seen him, or not, but they just looked at him strangely and walked on.

The worst part was seeing Sally and her arsehole boyfriend, who smirked and exchanged knowing glances when they saw John calling for Sherlock. John wanted to knock both their heads together.

So then he went outside, and ran around the ground like a madman, and then he went into the woods, under that big tree (he would never forget it now) but he  _could not find him_. John checked his watch. 4:00, and class was over at 3:15. Finally John had to face the inevitable conclusion that Sherlock had, indeed, gone home without him.

 _Then_ John sat down for a few seconds under the tree, partly because he was tired of running around looking for him, and partly because he suddenly felt miserable.

It had been good day, he thought. John had thought that he would be unerringly lonely on the first day of school, but then he met Sherlock and he was glad, because he was an obnoxious arse but he was also wonderful, and John had enjoyed his company. But now John was doubting it, because hadn't Sherlock told him that very morning that he did not have friends? So, as hard as John may try to convince himself, Sherlock obviously did not care for him very much at all.

So he did the things he would have done whether he had met Sherlock today or not; he picked his sister up from school, and he took a train, and after the depressing journey home which was made only slightly more entertaining with his sister's monologue about how lovely her day had been, he finally came home.

Then his mother asked him, "How was your day?" and she gave him his favourite lunch, and he said, "It was wonderful."

Which was actually, if he thought about it, quite true; it  _had_ been wonderful, but maybe John was thinking far too ahead of himself, and he wondered if maybe tomorrow he should ask Sherlock why he had just run off home without even informing John, when they had clearly agreed that they would go home together.

Then it dawned upon John that Sherlock had never technically  _agreed_ to this, that he had just stared at John when he had proposed, no  _told_ him, so maybe Sherlock didn't like being told to do something?

He didn't know. He pushed his half eaten plate of food away, and discretely slid it on the floor for Gladstone to devour, and tumbled into his bed because he didn't know what else to do.

 

***

When Sherlock got home, surprisingly, his parents were home. His father was seated on the couch, wearing one of his particularly boring grey suits, and a grey tie, (Sherlock  _detested_ ties, almost as much as he detested his father) and everything about him was so boring and dull that Sherlock didn't even stop to say hello; he just proceeded to the stairs to fall asleep in his bed. But then his father called him back.

"Now, wait just a moment, young man," he said. So Sherlock sighed, and rolled his eyes and turned around, glaring at the back of his father's head.

"What?" he snapped.

"Don't take that tone with your father, Sherlock." And then his mother came out of nowhere, also dressed in a boring suit, her boring glasses perched on her boring nose.

"What tone?" he asked, in that vaguely uninterested voice of his. But in reality, he was not  _vaguely_ uninterested. He was not interested at all in conversing with his parents.

"That tone that you just used. Sherlock, please stand in front of us. Refusing eye contact is a sign of cowardice." His father folded up the newspaper that he was pretending to read and didn't even turn around.

Sherlock longed to pick something up and throw it at him, because he was many loathsome, detestable things, but he was certainly not a  _coward_. And his father was in no position to say that he was, because he was the most cowardly person he had seen in his life. But he didn't, because Mycroft would be disappointed in him. Well, not that he cared greatly for his opinion; he didn't even care remotely about it, but Mycroft expected him to do something drastic like that and Sherlock did not want to give him the satisfaction of being right. He was right far too often and this had to be prevented.

So he balled his fists by his side and walked in front of his father and then asked again, "What?"

"Sherlock, stop being rude. Sit down, we wish to speak to you." His mother sniffed and sat down next to his father. Then they surveyed him with slight disgust and slight weariness on their faces, like Sherlock was a particularly slimy, venomous snake that they had to confront and were not happy about. Sherlock intimidated them, he knew; but as parents they believed that they were in a position of authority so they could not allow this.

He sat down. "Will you please tell me what the both of you are doing here in the middle of the day when you should obviously be working doing the things you normally do? Talking to me isn't one of them."

"This passive aggressive behaviour will not do, young man," his father always called him 'young man'. Like saying his name would reiterate the fact that Sherlock was in some way related to him, which his father normally didn't like admitting to.

"Where's Mycroft?" Sherlock asked. He was not greatly fond of Mycroft, obviously; but whenever his parents insisted on these tedious conversations, Mycroft was always around and he was the one who would inevitably put an end to them by saying inane things like 'Sherlock is tired' or 'Sherlock has homework to do' which were never true and downright funny, because Sherlock was rarely tired and he never did his homework. But Mycroft's cool, polite voice did wonders on his parents and he never had to endure it longer than necessary. But today Mycroft was not at home. This complicated matters.

"Mycroft is working and doing useful things because he is mature, Sherlock. Unlike you." His mother stared stonily at him.

"Is there a point to this discussion, Mother?" Sherlock doubted calling her by her name would make any difference.

"You've missed your classes again today. And the one class you  _did_ go to, you were thrown out; for being disrespectful to the teacher concerned. Explain yourself." His father folded his hands in his lap and looked at Sherlock with polite interest.

Sherlock sighed. "What would you like me to explain?"

"Why did you do this?"

"Why do you think?"

"Don't answer a question with a question."

"Don't ask stupid questions."

"Were you smoking?"

"Irrelevant to this discussion."

"Answer me, Sherlock."

"Yes."

Both his parents sighed and shook their heads. "We try very hard to inculcate certain values in you, Sherlock. But you refuse to adhere to them. See how well we have done with Mycroft; then why are we failing with you?" His mother tried to look devastated. She could not manage this.

"This may come as a surprise to you," Sherlock replied, standing up. "But I am not my brother. Good afternoon."

Then he turned around and walked away, and his parents did not stop him. Because his parents did not care.

Sherlock navigated through the scientific and chemical debris that was his room, and collapsed on his bed, fully clothed.

Today was turning out to be a most  _tiresome_ day, no matter how fantastically it had started. Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face, now allowing himself to think about John. If he closed his eyes, he could picture him perfectly; with his roundish face and strong jaw, his messy, dirty blonde hair, and his eyes; dark blue and bright and  _intelligent_.

What should he do? He desperately wanted to hear his voice. It seemed like  _ages_ ago since he had heard him speak, although in reality it had been roughly 2 hours and 17 minutes. Sherlock had counted.

He would never call John to his house when his parents were home, he decided. The consequences of that would be devastating. His parents would be shocked to see that Sherlock had succeeded in communicating with another intelligent life form, and they would be all over him like the plague. Asking him silly questions about what they talked about, or whether Sherlock had a girlfriend; and they would scare him off and he would never see him again.

It would also not do for him to see Mycroft. Mycroft had the most terrible effect on people. This was probably because he was so terrible himself.

Sherlock grabbed his skull from the bedside table and stared at the yellow bone and the hollow sockets. Sherlock adored the skull. Well, 'adore' was a strong word. Sherlock found the skull more tolerable than most members of the human race. Today he held the skull in his hands and turned it over and looked at it from every possible angle and couldn't find  _what_ he had found so interesting about it in the first place. It was just a  _bloody skull_.

Sherlock knew how to procure John's number. It would actually be laughably easy. But this was not the root of the problem. The root of the problem was the question as to whether John wanted to speak to him at all. Sherlock had been...slightly unstable, when he had seen John with that stupid girl, but now all he could think about was that sodding sandwich that John had forcibly made him eat and all his brain could manage was  _john john john john_. Not hearing his voice until the next day seemed an impossible task and Sherlock didn't know if he could manage it.

In truth, the answer was in the negative.

But Sherlock had broken a promise, and with John's sense of loyalty (Clearly; the way he had swooped in on Anderson and Sally because he had the idea that Sherlock was being threatened) he deduced that this would not be taken lightly. The idea that John would possibly  _cease_ interaction with Sherlock based on this horrific lapse of judgement was terrifying. At the moment, Sherlock could not comprehend the possibility of not having John Watson to look forward to the next day.

Oh, Sherlock  _knew_. He knew that this kind of fixation on a person was dangerous. But he was suddenly fascinated with him and everything he had done that day and  _he needed to speak to John and apologise_.

He grabbed his phone and dialled a number.

"Sherlock, I do hope you are not calling to inform me that you’ve burnt down the school building or strangled the neighbour's cat or something equally tiresome." Mycroft answered lazily.

"Don't be a fool, Mycroft. That sounds like an appalling waste of time and energy. And strangling the cat? Far be it for me to display such _ordinary_ sociopathic behaviour. No, I want a favour from you."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock could  _hear_ the smirk from the other end of the line.  _Ugh. This was degrading. Why was he doing this again? Oh yes. John._

"Don't make me repeat myself. You know I detest repetitions. You heard me. Will you do it or not?"

"Depending on whether the favour involves theft of government property, or any kind of felony, and depending on how nicely you ask, we'll see."

"It doesn't involve either of those things. In fact, it is absolutely danger free and nobody will get arrested. And how nicely am I supposed to ask?"

"I would like you to use the words, 'Could you please do me a favour please, Mycroft, please?"

"That sentence is redundant. What's the point of using the word 'please' so many times?"

"Just a friendly, brotherly verbal match. Also, it’s satisfying to hear you grovel.”

"I am not going to  _grovel_."

"Then you may ask someone else to perform this favour for you."

"Why are you so awful? Why won’t you just go back to London?"

"Goodbye, Sherlock..." his voice trailed off.

"Wait."

"Hmm?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and screwed his eyes shut. He was going to  _kill_ his brother as soon as he obtained a viable murder weapon. Poison, while available in abundance in this very room, was a relatively painless way to go. No, he would require something better.

"Could you  _please_ do me a favour, Mycroft?"

"Fair enough. What do you need?" Mycroft's tone had become its usual clipped, let's-do-business one.

"I need you to get me a number."

***

John was doing his homework when his mother called him from downstairs.

"John! It's for you, love!"

John climbed down. "Who is it?" he asked, approaching his mother, who was gripping the receiver tightly.

"I forgot; it's a fancy, posh name. Something with S?"

 _Sherlock_.

John snatched the phone from her with rather more force than required and literally shouted into the receiver, "Hello?"

There was silence at the other end for a few seconds. If John listened very closely, he could hear the distinct sound of someone breathing.

"Hello?" he said again uncertainly.

"John." And just like that, with just one word, Sherlock's deep, luxuriant voice washed over him and he breathed a sigh of relief because  _Sherlock had called him_.

Then he suddenly snapped, "How did you get my number?" He realised that sounded a bit rude, but then again; Sherlock had waltzed off home without him. He was entitled to a bit of rudeness, he reasoned.

"My brother got it for me," he said simply; like he was stating a fact, like his number was an apple on a tree and this brother of his had plucked it and handed it to Sherlock.

"You have a brother?" John supposed there were many more pertinent questions to ask, like  _who the bloody hell_  was  _his brother_ , but this tumbled out of his mouth instead.

John could almost hear the eye roll.

"Yes. And you should know that he is a terrible topic of discussion, so the sooner we abandon it, the better."

 _Hmm. Sibling Rivalry? Interesting_. "So. I'm guessing you called because you have something far more interesting to discuss?" John didn't bother to keep the sarcasm out of his voice; because he remembered that he was supposed to be  _pissed_ with Sherlock.

Sherlock would be nervously fiddling with his shirt cuffs, he thought.

"Uh. Well." This part was oddly amusing, because in all of the two hours he had known Sherlock Holmes, he had never once stammered.

"Go on," he encouraged, leaning against the wall leisurely. "I've got all day."

"I...called to...well. Uh. Apologise."

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that. Care to repeat it?" Christ, this was fun. He felt bad about teasing Sherlock, (it was so easy, he thought; partly because Sherlock didn't quite understand the concept of a 'joke' and consequently ended up taking everything quite seriously) but he would make it up to Sherlock by...by...what exactly would he do? His mind considered a variety of possibilities, and each of them more appallingly inappropriate than the last.  _Where the hell had they come from?_

"John, you're not making this any easier," Sherlock sounded like a sullen teenager, and as pissed as John was, he couldn't help but find it so endearingly  _adorable_.

"I never planned to."

Sherlock groaned. "Oh god. What else do I say? I promised you that I wouldn't go home without you and I did and I feel terrible and stupid and I'm sorry. Is this good enough for you?"

And then John's mouth dropped open, because Sherlock had said it all in one desperate rush, and he actually sounded  _hurt_ and  _sad_ and John didn't even know how he could tell all that from one sentence, but he knew that this apology had taken a tremendous amount of effort from his part and suddenly it became all-consumingly important to him that make Sherlock see that  _it was okay_.

"It's alright," he said hastily. "it's fine, really. It's okay."

"Okay?" Sherlock echoed.

"Yes, it's okay. You can calm down now."

"I am very calm."

"Of course you are," John muttered under his breath with the full intention of Sherlock hearing.

"Is that sarcasm?" Sherlock asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"Yes."

"Oh. Okay. I'm not very good with sarcasm."

"I can see that."

"Are you being sarcastic again?"

John smiled, in spite of himself. "No, I'm not. But I have to go and finish homework."

" _Homework_?" Sherlock spat it out like it was a dirty word. "Why on earth would you waste your time with  _that_?"

"Not all of us are geniuses, mate. We unfortunate idiots have to make our way in the world doing tiresome, mundane things like  _homework_."

"I don't think you're an idiot. Very well. Erm. Goodbye, I suppose."

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

"We're okay?" Sherlock asked, his voice once again uncertain and weary.

"'Course we are."

"And I will see you tomorrow in school?"

John rolled his eyes and grinned at the same time. "Yeah, of course you will."

"Brilliant," Sherlock said brightly, and hung up.

John stared at the receiver in hand. Sherlock thought meeting John the next day would be 'brilliant.'

Brilliant.

***

Mycroft stared curiously at the file open in front of him on the computer and _thought_.

Today had been an exceedingly strange day. It had started out fairly normal, with a fairly normal squabble with Sherlock, and the fairly normal event of Sherlock being tiresome and refusing to be dropped off, and then he had gone to work, (yes, he was here on holiday, but _still._ ) which was as usual, dull. Sherlock had missed most of his classes, which was also not out of the ordinary.

So, naturally, it came as a surprise when Sherlock called him with this one request:  _Get me a number_. And whose number was it? An unremarkable, average looking 16 year old boy by the name of John Watson.

Having a brother like Sherlock, Mycroft considered a plethora of explanations for this odd behaviour, the first being the most believable; John Watson had committed a murder. Although it was the most convincing, nothing on his record would show that he had come even close to taking someone's life. This was why it was so strange that Sherlock would find him even remotely interesting.

He had lived a fairly ordinary life until this point; gone to a decent school a train ride away, then gotten a scholarship from there and transferred to Sherlock's fairly expensive public school instead. He was bright, he guessed; academically, at least; had a single mother, a younger sister, his father had been in the Army (interesting) and had not committed any felonies till date.

Which all begged the question of  _why_.

Sherlock had never had a friend in his entire life. The golden rule that he lived by was 'Everyone is an Idiot except me and occasionally Mycroft." Even the last bit he detested to admit. But the fact of the matter was that Sherlock  _did_ believe in a higher power, the only difference being that in this case, it was himself. Sherlock thought himself to be exceptionally, impossibly clever and he had never displayed  _any_ inclination towards interacting with  _people_. He was anti-social in the extreme, and while all the doctors and specialists and experts had deemed his IQ higher than most adults, he was remarkably ignorant about human nature. So, the end result being;  _Sherlock did not have friends_.

Mycroft decided to not come to the conclusion that Sherlock had made this boy his friend. Possibly, this was some sort of twisted experiment which would last for a few days. Then at the end of the week, the Sherlock he knew would return to dissecting frogs and examining poisonous fungi in his room for hours on end.

Yet Mycroft could not simply assume that this friendship would be bad for his brother. He rather hoped that he  _was_ wrong and Sherlock had finally found someone he found agreeable and was cultivating a  _relationship_. True, Mycroft did not put any importance  _in_ these so called relationships, yet only an idiot would fail to notice that his brother was desperately lonely.

And although he cared for his brother in his own way, he had been unsuccessful in driving away that loneliness that had made Sherlock into who he was; including the drugs.  _Especially_ the drugs.

He wondered if Sherlock actually had the ability to sustain the relationship he had begun, assuming if he had begun it all. Most people didn't take too kindly too insults, and Sherlock usually conversed in insults.

Maybe it was an experiment, after all.

For Sherlock's sake, he hoped he was wrong.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pace picks up from here, I swear.

Sherlock woke up that morning with a most curious sensation in his chest. He felt  _excited_ about something, and it took him a few seconds to pin point exactly what he was feeling so strongly about.

It took him less than a few seconds, actually.  _John_.

Sherlock rarely woke up before someone had actually knocked his door down, but today was different. Today he had an actual  _reason_ to go to school, the previous one being four years ago when that senior girl had killed herself and Sherlock had decreed that it was not a suicide. It was food poisoning, actually, and the police had realised that a month after Sherlock had said so, which was sixteen hours after she had been declared dead. Ugh. People were so  _stupid_. They'd get on so much better if they just agreed with everything he said.

Sherlock pulled over his uniform, but was annoyed to find that his tie had been untied from the usual knot he simply pulled over his head. He didn't want to get sent out of class today (he probably  _would_ be, though, but he hoped that it would be for something more dramatic and not because  _he hadn't worn his tie_.) So he stuffed it in his pocket instead, and grabbed his bag, ready to sprint down the stairs- when he paused for a moment to  _think_ about the...needles stuffed right at the bottom of his bag and he considered, only for a moment, should he remove them? _If John saw them_...but no.  _Too soon._ He didn't need them, not now...but...it was too soon.

He ran down the stairs.

Mycroft peered at him over the newspaper he was reading as Sherlock stood over the dining table, scrunching his nose distastefully at the breakfast that had been laid out.

"You're up early today," he quipped.

" _What_ an  _excellent_ observation, Mycroft. It's hardly a mystery to me that the security of the free world lies in your hands." He grabbed some toast from the plate and munched.

"I hope you know that I have recorded you begging me for a favour yesterday, and I intend to use it against you," Mycroft replied, unperturbed.

Sherlock scowled. "Recording of telephone conversations is illegal."

"Oh, Sherlock." Mycroft smiled at him; the mocking smile that both Holmes brothers had perfected over the years.

"I hope you're dropping me off today," Sherlock said primly, steering the conversation in a different direction.

Mycroft raised both his eyebrows, immediately lowering the newspaper. "You want me to drop you off?"

Sherlock smirked. It was such a lovely thing to catch Mycroft off guard. "Yes. Can you? Or will you leave me to fend for myself in  _public transport_?" He said the word 'public transport' like one would say 'rancid faces'.

Mycroft kept looking at him curiously. "I am finding this entire situation highly unbelievable. Tell me-" he leaned forward, resting his chin on slender, interlaced fingers. "Does this uncharacteristic behaviour have something to do with John Watson?"

Sherlock groaned.  _Of course Mycroft would react like this._

"It was a mistake to ask you," he grumbled, tearing off the toast like a rabid wolf. "He's just someone I know." This seemed like a most ridiculous description of John, but Sherlock couldn't possibly have Mycroft making assumptions and  _saying_ things. This...thing...whatever...he had with John, was like a fragile and delicate secret that he wanted to keep with himself, lest it be shattered by someone's words or prying eyes.

"A boy whose number you begged for,  _from me_. I could have had your conversation recorded, but I didn't. Thanks are in store, I think. Social convention, you see, brother mine."

"That would have been an invasion of privacy."

"An offense you know very well I will not be arrested for."

"Mycroft, I called him to ask about his sister. She was tragically murdered last year and everyone assumes it's suicide. I think differently." Sherlock didn't even flinch once while saying this blatant lie, but the skepticism on Mycroft's face did not go amiss.

"I see," he replied coolly, folding the newspaper, only the slightest hint of a smirk on his face. Sherlock  _detested_ that smirk. He wanted that smirk to be gone  _at once_ , but anything he said that would result in that would prove that he was lying a second ago, so he merely gritted his teeth and finished the rest of his toast. "Let's drop you off."

Sherlock had never been so glad to come to school in his life.

But, like he had earlier mused; today was different.

He had stepped out of the car, eager to run down the field and look for John, but Mycroft rolled down the window and called him just before he could.

"Sherlock," he said, sombrely. Sherlock whipped his head around.

"What?" he snapped.

"If you have a reason for attending classes, please attend them. I don't want our parents paying an unnecessary visit to your school again. Do you understand?"

Sherlock frowned at him, trying to deduce why exactly Mycroft was saying this. If he stared getting sentimental at a simple  _mention_ of Sherlock with another person...ugh. This was going in a most sickening direction.

"Yes," he replied, trying to keep the snappishness out of his voice. "I get it. I'll see you later."

Then he ran off.

 

 

 

He had to wait in class for a few minutes before he saw John. He walked into class, looking especially dishevelled, not at all like the neat and tidy self he had displayed to Sherlock yesterday. This morning he hadn't taken the train, been dropped off by his mother, presumably, and he had played rugby this morning, not football. Obviously enjoyed himself more. He had forgotten to feed his dog this morning, then, too.

"Hey," he greeted him, and just like that, all of Sherlock's thought processes came to a grinding halt. John Watson had walked into that empty classroom, and suddenly it  _wasn't_ an empty classroom, it was like..it was like...it was something wonderful and Sherlock quite possibly felt the beginnings of sentiment, which he should have felt disgusted by, but this time, today, it just felt right.

"Hi," Sherlock said, and his voice sounded unnaturally shrill to his ears.

John dropped into the seat next to him, depositing his bag with a loud  _thunk_ on the floor next to him.

"So I hope you don't run away home without me today." John grinned at him, and Sherlock mentally catalogued that grin into his mind palace, because it was the most wonderful thing he had seen for a while.  _Stop it_ , he told himself.  _This is getting out of hand_.

Sherlock ran a hand nervously through his hair. "I assume you're joking?" he asked.

John laughed. "God, yes, Sherlock. Of course I'm joking." Then his gaze went down to Sherlock's bare neck.

"Where's your tie?" he asked.

Sherlock made a face. "I don't wear ties," he announced.

"Yes you do. You wore one yesterday. Where is it?"

Sherlock's nose twitched. "I don't have it," he replied grandly.

"Liar," John grinned. "You don't know how to wear a tie, do you?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tried to look offended. "Yes I do," he insisted. "I'm just  _choosing_ not to wear a tie. It's a conscious decision on my part."

"Give me your tie, Sherlock." John held out his hand.

"What?"

"Give me your tie. I'll do it for you."

Sherlock licked his lips, staring for a few seconds at John's outstretched hand. Then, like a little child caught with his hand stuck in the proverbial cookie jar, extracted his tie from his pocket and placed it on John's palm.

"Knew it," John looked very pleased with himself. Sherlock didn't mind it quite so much. Pleased John was a sight to behold. "Come closer."

"What?" Sherlock's head snapped up and he looked right into John's dark blue eyes. He felt his mouth dry.

"I can't tie this around your neck when you're five feet away from me. Come closer."

"Okay," Sherlock said, seemingly capable of only saying one word. He scooted his chair closer and stretched his neck out.

"Mmm," John muttered approvingly, and looped the material around his neck, tying it briskly. Sherlock felt a most curious sensation in his stomach when John's warm fingers would occasionally brush against skin. He half hoped that John would just tug the tie and pull him closer and then—

"There you go," John said, pulling Sherlock out of that most appalling reverie. He moved back immediately, clearing his throat, touching the tie that was now perfectly hanging down his neck.

"Thanks," he muttered.

John smiled, leaning his head back against the edge of his chair. Sherlock was rapidly trying to control his breathing, searching for something,  _anything_  in that brilliant mind of his, that would help him stop hyperventilating. He was never going to wear a tie for the rest of his life, he decided. Not if John was going to tie it for him instead.

***

 

John's fingers were buzzing from where they had made contact with Sherlock's skin.  _God,_ what was  _wrong_ with him? If any kind of interaction with Sherlock would make him giddy and stupid, well, he had to get a hold on himself.

Surprisingly, Sherlock had stayed for the first class. Well, he had  _tried_ to, at least. It was Social Science, which John had a feeling Sherlock absolutely loathed. If he didn't care to know that the earth revolved around the sun, he doubted he cared which country had what kind of political system.

Of course, Sarah's stares and Edmund's stares, and the great deal of general  _staring_ didn't seem to make anything easier. But John really didn't see how caring about it was going to help. So he just sat in his seat in the last row (he hadn't particularly wanted to sit so far away, but Sherlock had doggedly insisted that if he was going to sit here at all, it was certainly not going to be anywhere  _close_ to 'that utter fool')

"Do you know, John," he whispered conspiratorially into his ear during class, "That Mr. Bradston is currently having problems with his wife?"

John turned to him, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock was looking back at him, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips, looking sickeningly pleased with himself.

"Yeah? And how can you tell?"

It was half a challenge and half indulgence; he knew Sherlock had a logical basis for his assumptions, and he also knew that Sherlock  _loved_ to show off. So he let him, half hoping he would say something silly and he could tease him good-naturedly.

"See the coat he's draped over the back of the chair? It's filthy. And his clothes too; he's utterly shabby. He's married, you see- look at the ring- which wife would let him walk out of the house like that? Obviously one that doesn't care greatly for him. That, coupled with fact that a few minutes ago he received a phone call- the ringtone is personalised, so someone special. Wife. He looked abhorrently hopeful when he saw who it was and he scurried out of class to take it, but he came back in ten seconds later looking dejected. Wife, who didn't have much to say to him besides a practical reminder, perhaps. His clothes are expensive, but old- I'd reckon three or fourth months, which is possibly when they had the fall out. And don't even get me started on—"

"Mr. Holmes," the teacher snapped. "Is there something you'd like to share with the rest of the class?"

 _Please don't be a smart arse please don't be a smart arse PLEASE DON'T BE A SMART ARSE_ , John prayed, but...

"I don't know. I assume it would be inappropriate of me to make a public display of your dismal matrimonial affairs," he countered readily.

The class went silent. Somebody whispered, " _Busted_."

"Sherlock!" John hissed at him, but he just looked at him with an expression that clearly said,  _What? It's not like I'm lying. He had it coming. He's an idiot._

Mr. Bradston's mouth opened and closed several times, reminding John of a fish. Then his face flushed with anger and he spat out, "Get out of my class! I should be taking you to the principal!"

"Ye-e-es," Sherlock replied vaguely, picking up his bag, "But you won't because you know I'll tell him, and you don't want him to know that you've been deprived of your wife's love."

The class burst into ill-suppressed laughter, but John just smacked his palm to his forehead.  _Who else but Sherlock?_

" _OUT."_ The teacher snapped again, and Sherlock rolled his eyes before whispering to John,

"See, John.  _Exactly_ why I detest lessons. See you after class."

John was trying to glare at him, but he couldn't resist the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched Sherlock stalk away.

 

***

The only reason Sherlock had stayed for class was because he would be able to sit next to John. He expected to get thrown out of class in any case, but this, at least, was a record for him; he had actually spent thirty five of the forty five minutes within the classroom.

Now, of course, he had nothing to do for the next ten minutes, and he could  _feel_ the boredom eating away at him again, the dullness of the world seeming to almost suffocate him.

He really wanted to smoke, but he didn't want John to know- and he would, obviously. So he just went to the woods, knowing that John would come sooner or later.

So he leaned against the trunk of the tree, closed his eyes...

...and snapped them open. Who was coming? John? No...someone bigger than John, taller...

"What's up, Holmes?"

Sherlock groaned.  _Victor Trevor_.

***

John didn't even have to look for Sherlock, he knew exactly where he would be. So he wasn't surprised to find him there, but he  _was_ surprised to see another boy with him.

Sherlock turned to him sharply as soon as he saw John, his blue-grey eyes almost greedily taking in the sight, hardly giving him the chance to wonder who the boy was. "John," he said his name almost reverently. "Please rescue me from this boredom," he flopped dramatically down on the grass. "I'll even come with you for class. Even..even  _English."_ His voice was muffled against his hands, which were covering his face, and all he could see of it were the dark curls spilling over the tips of his fingers.

"Drama queen, isn't he?" John finally turned to the boy. He was almost as tall as Sherlock, but more strongly built, with fair hair and tanned skin, a friendly smile on his face as he stretched out his hand for a shake.

John shook it. "Sorry, I don't—"

"Victor Trevor. I'm in 11A, you haven't met me yet."

"Ah," John nodded understandingly, still trying to process the way he had said  _drama queen_  almost affectionately, in the tone  _he_ normally used for Sherlock, the  _yes-he-is-an-idiot-but-I-kind-of-like-it_  one.

"And you don't  _have_ to meet him," Sherlock scoffed, jumping up. "Trevor, this is John Watson, please don't feel obligated to speak to him. John, don't we have class or something equally dreadful to go for? Come along, now."

"Excuse him," John said apologetically, ignoring Sherlock's expression of betrayal even as he said those words.  _How dare you ignore me John don't you see this person is terrible let's get out of here_ it said. "He doesn't really—"

"Oh, he does, I assure you," but he said it without any hint of venom. "Saw this idiot moping about alone so I thought I'd give him company."

John found it difficult to form a reply so it just came out as, "You...give him... _company_?" Who in their right minds would plop down next to Sherlock when he was, as Victor had so eloquently put it, 'moping'? Did people actually  _do_ that? Were there more of them? And why did Sherlock dislike him so much? There were far too many questions in John's head and no answers.

"Why are we still having this conversation?" Sherlock waved his arms about dramatically. "We've introduced ourselves. Told each other our names. Now that the entire process is over, aren't we supposed to part ways? Do you two have  _any_ idea at all what social convention entails?" He turned to John. "John. We must leave. At once. I'm fairly sure we have English."

"Sherlock, stop it. Sorry," he apologised to Victor again, who was looking at the now petulant Sherlock with wry amusement on his face. "So, you know Sherlock?"

"Oh I'm sure  _he_ knows everything about me. He can probably tell what kind of ketchup I had this morning—"

"You didn't  _have_ ketchup this morning," Sherlock interjected sullenly. He had plopped down on the grass again, knees drawn up, arms thrown to the side, staring at the sky with an annoyed expression.

"Of course he would know that," Victor muttered, then turning to John, "Two years ago he helped me with a family problem. Dad was having a bit of a trouble, unfortunately I didn't ask him for help until Dad passed- but he unravelled it all like a loose sweater."

"He did?" John wasn't very surprised, but he wanted to know more- any insight on the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes was welcome.

"Yeah," Victor grinned. "When I first introduced him to Dad, he read him like an open book. Dad was so scared of him, it was hilarious. In any case, he helped me out, and the least I could do was—"

"Pretend to be my friend," Sherlock muttered.

"I’m not pretending, mate." But Victor didn't look offended. John couldn't help the flare of jealousy that suddenly sprung up; the way Victor was speaking to him, and the way Sherlock was insulting him—like—they  _knew_ each other, and evidently more than John knew Sherlock, and it made him feel uncomfortable. He knew he couldn't dislike Victor for such a petty reason...but he really couldn't help it.

"But I see now that he's got a new friend," Victor smiled at John. "Shocking, really, I mean, this is the first time I've  _ever_ —"

"Alright, time to go," Sherlock suddenly sprang to his feet and tugged violently on John's arm to pull him up. "Come along, John."

Victor seemed unaffected by this, he just rolled his eyes and got up too, dusting the grass off his trousers.

"Nice to meet you, though, John," Victor patted John's shoulder. Sherlock was silently simmering besides him, radiating wave after wave of impatience, and as it was John was finding it difficult to formulate suitable replies with him standing so close that he could actually feel his warm breath against his neck.

"Good to see Sherlock with someone. See you around, mate." He grinned at the both of them and walked off in the other direction.

" _That_ was tedious," Sherlock muttered, and pulled John to drag him away.

"And when were you going to tell me about him?" John wanted to shout at Sherlock, but he knew that was entirely uncalled for, so he tried to keep his voice to a reasonable limit.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What is there to tell? He's a fairly unremarkable boy who insists on thanking me in this distasteful manner. I'd be much more grateful if he just left me alone."

John raised his eyebrows at the acid in Sherlock's voice. "From what I know, mate, you only hate people that much if you actually like them."

"Where on  _earth_ did you pull out  _that_ rubbish from?" he scoffed. "The  _tabloids_?"

"He seemed to know you well," John said dryly, ignoring his comment.

"Hardly. He doesn't know  _anything_ about me." Sherlock said it almost bitterly, and John felt himself thaw a little. " _Everyone_  seems to assume they know me. But honestly, John, I care very little for him, I assure you."

"Well, you should!" John snapped, causing Sherlock to look at him in alarm.

"What do you mean?" He asked, with genuine curiosity in his voice.

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  _Why was he reacting like this? There was nothing to be so angry about. It's not like Sherlock wasn't allowed to have friends_.

"Nothing," he muttered. "Nothing at all. I just—never mind."

Sherlock continued to frown at him, his bow-shaped mouth pouted. "Okay," he said. "But Trevor only  _thinks_ he knows something about me."

"Sherlock, even  _I_  don't know anything about you."

That made Sherlock stop. He shifted until he was right in front of John, those pale, multicoloured eyes firmly on John's. He ran a hand nervously through his thick curls. "That's not true. I don't think it's true. Is that true?" He bit his lip.

"Of course it is," John replied evenly, trying to ignore that Sherlock was just inches away from him, and those eyes...god,  _those eyes_.

"But—"

"I didn't even know you had a brother."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We met  _yesterday_. And I'm supposed to waste your time by telling you that I have a  _brother_?"

"What's his name?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, with ill-disguised contempt. "Please let's not talk about him. Why do you want to talk about him? Let's talk about  _me_."

John smiled at the way Sherlock was saying it, like a whiny child. "What's your favourite colour?"

Sherlock gaped at him. "My favourite  _colour_?" He made a disgusted face. "Why would you want to know that? What purpose would it serve?"

"Well—"

"Can you come over today?"

"What?" Now John gaped at him. "Where?"

"To my house, of course," Sherlock said impatiently. "You should come. You can see Mycroft, since you're so desperate to. I hope he won't be there. Then I can show you that experiment I've been conducting."

"Experiment?" John said weakly, too shocked to absorb so much information at once.

"Yes." Sherlock began to walk, obviously expecting John to follow him. "Mycroft will pick us up. I don't want him to meet you, but he's driving me up the wall in any case. But I'm warning you; you must not speak to him more than required."

"Why not?"

"Because he's the most dangerous man you'll ever meet," Sherlock said it so simply, matter of factly, like it was hardly anything. But John almost did a double take at the words.

"What? Why? Is he some kind of terrorist? A mass murderer?" It all seemed so probable. With Sherlock, his brother would only be someone equally dramatic. Maybe he carried out assassinations, John thought wildly- or perhaps he kidnapped little children.

Sherlock made a face in John's direction. "I wish. Quite the opposite. Believe me, John, he practically  _is_ the British Government."

"You're not serious, are you?"

"Do I look like I'm joking? When you see him you'll know. Well, correct that; when you see him you'll probably want to go running off screaming in the other direction. But don't worry; he won't try anything when  _I'm_ there." He put his hand on his chest superiorly, like John was some kind of damsel in distress and Sherlock was his knight; and the idea seemed ridiculous at first, then quite endearing.

Sherlock attended exactly two and a half classes after that; Biology, where he covertly pocketed a vial of god-knows- what; 'I need it for an  _experiment_ , John, don't be tiresome," (John was constantly wondering what Sherlock  _meant_ when he said 'experiment' but he decided he would find out anyway.), English, which he only attended because John reminded him that he had promised.

The English teacher was  _extremely_ patient, John decided. Especially when Sherlock asked her, "But how can you just  _assume_ that the poet wants to kill himself? What are you teaching your students? Is all optimism lost on you?" and she had responded with, "Mr. Holmes, this is what I'm expected to teach you, please don't make me lose my job."

And last of all, Chemistry, which was the only class Sherlock found tolerable, but as usual, he corrected the teacher too many times and he was asked to leave.

So John was relieved when the last period was over and he could go to Sherlock's house. He was far too excited about it, he told himself, but he didn't care.

"There he is," Sherlock mumbled discreetly, pointing at the sleek black car parked in the driveway. "Remember what I told you. Don't speak unless you're spoken to. Try to give him one-word answers. And on  _no account_  must you give him any personal information. Although he could find anything out himself, if he was so inclined. For your sake, I hope not."

"Sherlock, you’re making it sound like your brother will kill me as soon as I meet him," John muttered anxiously, as they walked towards the car. He could feel his heart hammering against his chest. Was his brother a mad axeman who would chop off his head as soon he opened the door? John shuddered.

"He's not a  _psychopath_ ," Sherlock drawled. "That word is usually associated with me."

Before John could ask him what he meant by that, they had reached the car, the door opened, and a man stepped out, dressed in a sharp suit.

The first thing that passed through John's mind was  _doesn't look like Sherlock_. But when he looked at him for a few more seconds, he realised that he  _did;_ but the differences were subtle and you had to be observant. He had the same skin tone, the same piercing, pale eyes, although theirs was a more distinguished, plainer, grey; almost clinical. He was tall, although not at all as thin as Sherlock, with soft gingery hair, a pointed nose, and thin lips that were at this moment turned up in a polite smile, as he looked at John as if he were a particularly amusing pet dog.

"Mycroft, this is John." Sherlock put a hand on John's back and pushed him forward for this man to see. "John, this is Mycroft."

"Good afternoon, John," he said lightly, holding out a gloved hand for him to shake. The other hand was leaning against an umbrella.

"Oh, hello, yes, good afternoon," John bumbled, shaking his hand perhaps a bit more forcefully than required.

"I'm afraid Sherlock had been rather secretive about you, so I do hope you will forgive me if I ask you some questions on the way." He gave him that polite, but slightly condescending smile again. He reminded John of a lazy snake; coiled lightly, but quick to attack when provoked.

He gulped. "No, of course—"

"That's quite enough. Mycroft, you've come to pick me up, not to  _converse_. Stop imposing yourself on John. John, get inside."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything else to his brother. "Make yourself comfortable John," he said smoothly, and got into the driver's seat, while Sherlock all but pushed John into the car.

Sherlock curled up in the corner of the seat, drawing his knees up and retreating into himself, which quite frankly, alarmed John, because he  _did not_ want to carry on a conversation with Mycroft  _alone_.

No. No way.

"So, John. I understand you have a sister."

"Y-yes sir," John stammered, quite powerless to ask him  _how the fuck he knew that_. He looked uncertainly at Sherlock, but he seemed quite unconcerned about the whole thing.  _How_ could he not be noticing how uncomfortable John was?

"You needn't be so frightened of me, John," Mycroft said, looking at him through the rear view mirror. "I have no doubt that Sherlock has been feeding you a great deal of information about me, but, contrary to his beliefs, I do not, in fact, wish you harm. So you may put yourself at ease." He said it calmly, with no hint of anger, yet John could shake off his discomfort.

"That’s exactly what someone who wished harm upon someone would say," Sherlock muttered. "I was simply endeavouring to give him a sound background about you."

"Let me guess," Mycroft said dryly. "You told him that I was a dangerous man, practically controlled the world, et cetera, et certera."

"I said nothing of the sort," Sherlock sniffed, earning a glare from John.

"You  _did,"_ he seethed. Sherlock looked appalled that he was not participating in this charade.

"Never mind, John. In time you will learn to put up with my brother's antics." He smoothly stopped the car. "We're here."

John knew that Sherlock was posh, so he wasn't surprised to be driving into the affluent neighborhood and stopping in front of the three- story colonial, surrounded by expansive, well kept grounds and a gate of wrought iron.

"Oh, thank god," Sherlock muttered under his breath, and opened the door, springing out. He obviously expected John to follow him, so John tumbled out himself, and mumbled a hasty thank you to Mycroft, only too eager to be off.

He finally caught up with Sherlock, who had walked through the gate and was going down the path of gravel leading up to the house.

"So...that was Mycroft."

"Yes. Dreadful, isn't he? Must have been such a  _bore_ talking to him. At least  _I_ can tell him to go away. You're too polite to do it." Sherlock said it distastefully, like it was a lacking on John's part to be unable to be rude to Mycroft.

"Yeah, well, you  _did_ tell me he was...what did you say...'practically the British government.' I don't want to end up in prison."

"Oh don't be  _silly_ , John," Sherlock dug a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. "I don't think he can arrest a British civilian who hasn't committed a crime." He turned to John, his features suddenly alight with excitement and curiosity. "You  _haven't,_ have you?"

"No, of course not," John said, although he was fairly sure Sherlock had wanted him to say the exact opposite.

"Oh. Pity," Sherlock pulled him in.

His house was the kind of house you were afraid to walk around in; with all these antiques and expensive portraits on the walls; stiff, dull-coloured sofas that were good to look at but didn't seem very comfortable, the walls were plastered with fancy wallpaper—

"Master Holmes," someone said, and John turned around to see a thin man dressed in one of those butler's uniforms you saw on the telly, standing next to a particularly fancy-looking lamp. "Would you like some lunch?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock replied shortly, and started walking away, and then he stopped suddenly, causing John to almost bash into him. Then he turned around, fixing John with his piercing eyes. "Although I suppose  _you_ would be hungry," he said, like an afterthought.

John blinked at him. “Um-“

"Obviously. Get him something to eat," he told the butler. "Okay. Come."

He started walking up the carpeted stairs, and John caught his breath for a few seconds. He still couldn't quite place Sherlock, this obviously wealthy boy with the mysterious, umbrella-carrying brother, where were his parents?- and the  _butler_. Did people actually  _have_ butlers?

"His name is Rogers," Sherlock said, like he was reading his mind.

"What?"

"You're thinking about the butler, aren't you? And Mycroft. But don't think about  _him_. And my parents, of course. They're usually not home. You don't want to meet  _them_ either."

"Why not?" God, could the git just _slow down_ for a second? Ever since John had met him he felt as though he was constantly trying not to fall over the edge of a cliff.

They had reached the third floor, which was darker and less furnished than the other two. There was a door to the side, which Sherlock put his hand on. "A story to tell for another time, John."

Then he opened the door.

The first thing John though was  _filthy_. And it was. It was the messiest room he had ever seen. Well, even John's room was untidy, but this was...but when he took a closer look, he realised it wasn't  _garbage._

There was a bed pushed into the corner of the room, unmade, like sleeping didn't matter much. The only fairly normal furniture in the room was the closet, and the desk.

"I suppose it's a bit untidy," Sherlock said nervously. "But...there's probably some space on the bed. Although you'll have to avoid the fungi—"

" _Fungi_?"

"Yes. It's poisonous, so be careful."

John gaped at him. " _Poisonous?_  You keep  _poisonous fungi_ in your  _bedroom_?"

"Yes. What's wrong with that? I'm not going to  _eat_ it." Sherlock said impatiently. "And don't tell me you're going to stand there for the rest of the day. Come  _in._ "

So John walked in after Sherlock, now inspecting the room more carefully. One wall of the room was almost completely covered with a bookshelf, crammed head to foot with dusty volumes. The room was carpeted, but it was grimy and covered with funny stains that John didn't care to dwell on. There was a framed picture of...was that the periodic table? And his desk was covered with scattered papers and more books, and  _Jesus_ , petri dishes! But the most striking thing was the black and silver microscope occupying a place of honour on the desk. The windows were big, but the curtains were drawn.

"You have a microscope," John finally said, lamely.

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed. He was leaning against the wall, next to the door, watching John wearily. "I find it immensely useful."

"Your parents bought you a microscope? And they let you keep it in your bedroom?"

"My parents don't care what I keep in my bedroom. And Mycroft got it for me. When I was seven. One of the very few useful things he has done in his life."

John gaped at him again. "When you were  _seven_?" Bloody hell. He knew Sherlock was smart, but he was sure this was pretty much scientific prodigy territory.

Sherlock looked at him, a strange kind of fear in his eyes. "Yes, but it's not like..well, I wasn't very  _good_ at it, I mean, I was a fairly normal child, I can assure you—"

John waved it off. "No, Sherlock—" he stepped closer. Sherlock looked at him apprehensively. "I don't care about that. Why would I? I think you're a  _genius_."

Sherlock smiled almost shyly. It was John's favourite smile. "You do?"

"Of course. How many times do I tell you?" He smiled back.

Sherlock was about to say something in reply when the loud  _bang_ of a door could be heard, like it as just closed shut.

Sherlock turned around sharply. "Don't tell me..." he muttered.

"Wh-"

" _Sherlock!_ Are you home?" A shrill, female voice rang out, that could be heard even from below two storeys.

"Oh, for  _god's sake_ ," Sherlock hissed, his expression turning hard. "They're  _never_ home so early..."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm playing for you, John. Of course I'll play something nice. I wanted to play your favourite. Since you're being thoroughly un co-operative I will have to exercise my own supreme powers of deduction and play what I hope you will like. I detest conjecture, John, but I'll make an exception for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to pull this work out of hiatus, for the simple reason that I don't know if I'll have the time re-write and edit major parts as I wanted. looks like you'll be reading this as I had envisioned it as a fifteen year old!  
> Trigger warning for rly bad parents.
> 
> Comments and feedback are very appreciated!

_No no no no no no no no no NO NO NO NO NO._

Sherlock ran both hands through his curls. This was unacceptable.  _This was unacceptable_. What should he do? What  _could_ he do? That's it. This was the end of their acquaintance. His mother was here. His mother was here and  _John_ was here, and he felt like he was in a nightmare, because this was the  _one_ situation he had wanted to avoid. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut, pressing his finger tips to his temples. That's it. Go to the Mind Palace. What was the protocol for these situations?

 _Damage Control_.

Flashing red lights and an annoying siren.  _Hardly useful, I already_ know  _that the crisis level has reached DEFCON-1._   _What do I DO about it?_ How could he rectify the situation? Introduce John? No. Hide John in the closet? Not a bad idea.

Suddenly Sherlock felt a slight pressure on his shoulder and he snapped his eyes open. John was squeezing his shoulder, his eyes concerned. John's hands were warm.

"Sherlock," he said, calmly. His voice (and more importantly, his touch) instantly brought the rapid wheels running in Sherlock's head to an abrupt end. "Who is it?"

Sherlock felt his lip curl in spite of himself. "Someone who we should be avoiding at all costs," He seethed, breaking away from John's grasp to look out the door.

"Are you going to tell me who it is?" John asked.

Sherlock considered the possibility. He might be able to pretend that she was his housekeeper for a few minutes, unless she decided to come up. But then again, John wasn't an idiot...and he didn't want to lie to him.

"Sherlock," John insisted, his mouth a hard, straight line, and a little frown marring his brow. Sherlock sighed. What was the  _point_? Potential friends should know everything about each other. Wait...had he said friend?

"Sherlock?" John repeated, raising an eyebrow. The tone of John's voice was not one to broach argument. Or stubbornness.

"She's my..." Sherlock licked his lips. "Mother."

" _Mother_?" John stared at him.

"In a manner of speaking," he shrugged.

"But—"

"Sherlock! Come downstairs! I have to speak to you about something!"

Sherlock took a deep breath, readying himself for the inevitable. John didn't deserve to be in the presence of his mother, but he was hoping that John's wonderful nature would prevail in this case. That he wouldn't decide that Sherlock was a freak after all and leave him.

"Come along, John," he said, dejectedly. "Come along and meet my  _mother_."

Sherlock was leading the way, so when he went downstairs, his mother was standing next to the sofas, arms crossed over her chest as her foot tapped impatiently. She was about to open her mouth to say something to him, when her eyes suddenly fell upon John and her mouth snapped shut. She stared for a few seconds, eyes rapidly shifting from Sherlock to John to Sherlock.

He watched her impassively, wondering what was going through her head as she registered that he was not, in fact, alone. Finally, her basic politeness kicked in and she smiled widely. It was a fake smile, of course, Sherlock knew it quite well; but a smile, nevertheless. And he was glad; John deserved to have people smile at him.

"Hello," she said. "Sherlock, who is this?"

"Afternoon, Mrs. Holmes," John said politely, stepping forward. Sherlock's lip curled in disgust. Now John was being  _nice_. He was always far too  _nice_. He had no idea how he was standing this obvious character defect for so long.

His mother seemed to be surprised that anyone Sherlock brought home would be actually aware of basic etiquette, and she shook his hand. "Afternoon, dear. Who exactly—"

"I'm John, John Watson. A friend of Sherlock's from school." John smiled again. One of those winning smiles that made the slightest crinkle in the corner of his blue eyes—

" _Friend_?" His mother's eyebrows shot up in surprise as her eyes widened. Then she laughed; a horrible, trilling sound that was as fake as her smile. "Are you sure your family hasn't committed a murder or something of that sort? Sherlock does love his little mysteries, don't you dear?" Then she looked at Sherlock; her grey eyes searching his face. Sherlock gave nothing away, he looked back at her; although his mind was rapidly cataloging her reactions, his heart thrumming against his chest like a frantic bird. He wanted this entire exchange to be over as soon as possible, it was difficult enough to hold on to John, but if his mother said more than required, John might be disgusted and run away.

John gave a sharp chuckle. “Yeah, everyone keeps asking me that, but no, unfortunately. Pretty normal kid from a pretty normal family.”

She cocked her head and looked at him oddly. Sherlock felt his hackles rise protectively. He didn’t want John to be on the wrong end of his mother’s scrutiny. His entire family made people uncomfortable so _very_ easily.  "It's just that this is the first time Sherlock has ever brought a friend home. He never brings… _friends_ home. Doesn’t enjoy making friends at all.”

Sherlock looked down at his feet.

"So I'm told," John said wryly. "Fortunately he has me." Sherlock's heart did an odd leap at that comment, and he looked up.

"Well, that's lovely, I suppose," she said, with another slight laugh. "Although I hope you won't be disappointed if he loses interest in you due to your inability to stomach his rather morbid fascinations." She shot him a glance, as if daring him to say anything different. Sherlock wished that the floor could open up and swallow him whole, the damning words tumbling out of her mouth were pulling him further and further away from John.

"I'm sure he won't, Mrs. Holmes," John said brightly, although his eyes wore a steely glint. "Sherlock's been a lot of fun, actually."

"Lovely," she purred. "I came to speak to Sherlock, but since he's busy...we'll talk later."

"Oh no, please, go ahead, I'll just step away—"

"No, it's alright. I had better get off to work. I'll be late, Sherlock." With that, she walked out of the living room and out the door.

It was taking all of John's effort not to be rude to Sherlock's mother. What on earth did that woman think of herself? Talking about her own  _son_ like that! He breathed heavily as she finally left.

Suddenly, many things fell into place. Suddenly Sherlock didn't seem like such an oddity. With parents like that, who  _wouldn't_ dislike all of humanity?

He turned around to Sherlock, and met his blue-grey gaze. He said nothing, simply looked at John, an unfathomable expression on his face.  _Nervousness? Anger? What?_ He hated to see Sherlock like that. Sherlock was  _always_ so sure of himself, so confident and graceful in his movements. Now he looked fearful.

"Your mother is an absolute delight," John finally muttered.

Sherlock cracked a smile at that, but it didn't reach his eyes. He looked paler that he had before, and John noticed the very slight tremble in his fingers.

"Sherlock," he said, softly this time, moving closer to him, until he was just a few inches away. "I know she's your mother and all, but. But you do know that I don't believe anything she said?"  
Sherlock frowned at him, as if John was speaking in some foreign language. "You don't?" he asked, quietly.

"Of course not," John snorted.

"That's...good." he plucked some imaginary lint on his trousers.

"Yes, it is. Very good. Now come on, let's get back to your room."

When Sherlock led him back to his bedroom, John noticed some things he hadn't noticed before; one was the very large display board on one of the walls, pinned with numerous pictures, newspaper cut outs, and maps. There were coloured tacks on them, either pinpointing locations or holding them into place. Strings connected one location to another. It made absolutely no sense to John.

Walking through the mess of god-knows-what on the floor, he stood in front of it. "Okay. What is this?" he asked.

"It would take ages for me to explain." Sherlock stood next to him.

"I'm not stupid, Sherlock," John rolled his eyes.

"Where on earth did you get  _that_ idea?" Sherlock said vaguely.

"Arse. Come on, tell me. I want to know."

Sherlock looked at him, then, biting his lip nervously. "Alright," he finally said. "It's just...just a display board."

"Displaying what, exactly?"

Then Sherlock shot him a devilish grin. "Murders."

"Murders?" John raised his eyebrows.

"Yes. The police force is full of fools. I've solved at least three of them, and I haven't even left my room. I've tried to speak to them, but they always throw me out."

"You've  _solved_ them?" John gaped at him.

"Yes. Do keep up, John," Sherlock said impatiently. "I get bored. I get  _so_ bored. And the newspaper, although alarming in its ability to publish utter nonsense,  _does_ talk about the occasional murder. Serial, if I'm lucky."

"Serial murders," John laughed nervously. "So you want to be a police officer, huh?'

Sherlock scrunched his nose in disgust. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm going to be a consulting detective," he said grandly.

John smiled at that. "A consulting what?"

"Detective. Why do you insist on repetitions? I detest repetitions."

"What's a consulting detective?"

"When the police are out of their depth, which is always- they will consult me. I'll be their highest court of appeal."

"Ambitious."

"Obviously, but have you met me? They’ll be after all day.”

"I'm sure they will," John said indulgently. Sherlock was becoming more and more mysterious with everything he said. It was oddly appropriate, what he wanted to be. Then he noticed a strange yellowish-white thing on top of the glass cupboard.

"Sherlock. Is that a  _skull_?"

"Oh," Sherlock's mouth made a perfect  _o_ as his eyes fell upon the self same skull. "Yeah, friend of mine. Well, I say friend." Sherlock looked completely nonplussed about the absurdity of keeping that morbidly grinning abomination in his own bedroom.

  
"Okay," was all John managed to say.

The other thing he noticed was a violin-shaped case propped up against a glass cupboard.

“Oh, you play?” John asked, stepping forward.

"Oh. Yes. I'm very good at it." John was learning to recognize the subtle arrogance in Sherlock's voice. Far from finding it annoying, he found it alarmingly adorable.

"Really? Could you play for me?" John sat down on the edge of his bed, looking at him expectantly.

Sherlock look appalled. "You want to hear me play?" He nervously fingered his tie.

"Yeah. Isn't that what I just said?"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, bending down gracefully and picking up the case from the corner. "It's just..it's the first time somebody has asked me to play."

Then he sat next to him on the bed, close enough for their legs to be touching. John didn't want to move. Sherlock placed the violin on his lap, deftly unclasping it.

"Why not?" John seemed to be unable to tear his eyes away from the long, slender fingers removing the violin reverently and running themselves along the polished wood.

"Quite possibly because I abhor playing for people," he replied, whilst tuning the instrument, those pale fingers delicately turning the knobs. John noticed the thin scars and puncture holes on those pale forearms, and he wanted to say something, to  _ask_. But he didn't want to scare Sherlock off. He closed off so easily.  _In time,_  he thought.

"I want to hear you play." He said instead.

"So you said." Sherlock stood up, placing the violin under his chin, and placing the bow lightly on the strings. "What do you want me to play?" he licked his lips. John involuntarily licked his own.

"Something nice," he said, quite unable to say anything more specific, because the mere sight of Sherlock looking all elegant and Shakespearean with the violin under his chin was distracting.

"I'm playing for  _you,_  John. Of course I'll play something nice. I wanted to play your favourite. Since you're being thoroughly un co-operative I will have to exercise my own supreme powers of deduction and play what I hope you will like. I  _detest_ conjecture, John, but I'll make an exception for you." John had lost the trail of conversation after,  _I'm playing for you, John._

"I think the occasion calls for Bach. Have you heard Bach?"

"Not much," John said honestly.

"Good. I'll play that for you then. Bit romantic, don’t play it quite that often. Sentimental too, if you listen carefully."

 _Romantic? Sentimental? Was Sherlock playing something_ romantic  _for him?_

But then the bow began to move across the strings, and John stopped thinking. A haunting, beautiful melody filled the room. John watched, enraptured, as Sherlock swayed in tune to his own music, those elegant, pale fingers plucking the strings as the other hand directed the bow back and forth across the strings, creating the most wonderful music he had ever heard. Sherlock closed his eyes, his long lashes fanning across his cheeks, and his lips parted slightly, as he concentrated. He looked so perfect, like he belonged right here, in that messy room with the late afternoon sunlight piercing through the blue curtains, so he stood in a pool of yellowish light that threw his sharp features (especially his cheekbones) into further prominence, his wrists and fingers and hands moving dexterously across the instrument, playing, plucking,  _creating_.

Finally, the music stopped, and Sherlock removed the violin, and stood in front of John, watching him nervously. It took John a few seconds to register the absence of the music, a few more to realise that his mouth was hanging open, and a few more to be able to gather himself and formulate a hasty reply for the nervous Sherlock in front of him.

"That was  _amazing,"_ he said fervently.

Sherlock immediately perked up. "You liked it?" he sat down again on the bed next to him, putting the violin back.

"Of course I did. I never knew you played so well."

Sherlock smiled his shy smile again. "I don't play when I know someone's listening."

"You played for me."

"Yes, John. Because you asked me to and I can't say no to you," he said, annoyed. "Why do you insist on being slow?"

Again, John only registered  _I can't say no to you_.

Ugh. Why was he acting like such a...a...?  _Get a grip on yourself, Watson._

"Sorry," he muttered.

Then someone's phone beeped. Sherlock's features suddenly became alight with excitement. He dived across the bed, almost lying across John in his haste to grip his phone.

"Er. Sherlock. Are you—"

"It's Billy!" he said rapturously, still lying across the sheets on his stomach. He pressed some buttons on his phone, read the message, and stood up just as suddenly. And gracefully.  _Gah_.

"Billy?" Okay. John was lost now. "Who the hell is Billy?"

" _Billy_ , John. He's...I don't know. Billy Wiggums. Drug addict, as far as I know," he shoved the phone into his pocket. "Come on. Up you get."

"A  _drug addict_?" John got up automatically, responding to the childish glee in Sherlock's voice, although he was still completely at sea as to what was going on. "Where are we going?' A  _drug addict_?

"There's been a  _murder_ , John! It's the fourth one this week!" He was already past the door. John ran after him, down the stairs, torn between being amused at the clear exhalation on Sherlock's face and utter confusion as to why a murder was making him so darn happy.

"Erm..Sherlock...could you please explain? D’you mean the ones in the paper?" Sherlock stood reluctantly in the living room, looking at John, appalled at his inability to grasp the gravity of the situation.

“Yes, John! Four murders! And a note! Oh, it's Christmas!"

"Christmas," John said weakly. “Considering the conversation we just had in your room, I’m guessing we’re going to get very involved with this murder. Should I be worried?”

"You should always be worried around me, but, _don’t you see?_ " He suddenly gripped his shoulders, his eyes wide in his buoyancy. "We're going to solve this one!"

"Oh," John pursed his lips, rounding his eyes. "We're going to solve a murder. We're sixteen and we're going to solve a murder. A serial murder."  _Sherlock's touch was warm. And nice._

"Yes, John. Although your ability to state the obvious is an enviable one, it's of no use right now. Come on! We're wasting time! The game is on, John!" Sherlock literally jumped out the door.

John just thought,  _Oh, what the hell_. He was about to leave when the butler ran to him with a plate with two sandwiches on it.

"Sir, your—"

"Yeah, thanks," John said quickly, grabbing one and running out.

Sherlock was impatiently waiting for him at the gate, and John sprinted across the path to him.

"Aren't you going to change?" John asked, stuffing the sandwich in his mouth hungrily. Both of them were still wearing their uniforms. "You should eat something. Eat something first."

Sherlock snorted. "Don't be boring. Come on. We have a crime scene to deduce!"

He started walking quickly down the path, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Okay. Where are we going?" John asked, deciding that he was going to have to devise a method of getting Sherlock to eat.

"Lauriston gardens. A woman's been murdered and she scribbled some sort of note before she died."

"Billy told you?"

"Yes."

"Will you be allowed there?"

"Obviously not, John. But that's hardly an obstacle."

"Of course it isn't."

When they reached the main road, all Sherlock had to do was raise his arm and a cab stopped right in front of them. John had no idea why he found that so...attractive?  _No. Not gay. NOT gay._

Sherlock opened the door and shoved John into the cab, then settled in the corner of the seat, drawing his knees up to his chin, thrumming with excitement.

John realised that he would have to tell the cabbie where to go.

"Lauriston gardens," he informed him.

Then the cab started to move, and John could literally  _feel_ the wheels turning in Sherlock's head.

"So I assume you've solved the murder already?"

Sherlock's head snapped up, his blue-grey eyes confused. "What?"

"You know. You said you solved those murders without getting out of your room. Why can't you do it now?"

"Circumstances were  _different_ , John. It's a capital mistake to make premature evaluations."

"So..."

"So we wait." Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes, and that was clearly the end of the conversation.

The building was milling with police personnel. Yellow tape barricaded the crime scene, with several police cars emblazed with  _Scotland Yard_ were parked in the driveway. Sherlock dragged him to the side of a building on the other side.

"Sherlock. How the  _hell_ are you going to get to the body?"

"I know this place. There's a backdoor on the other side. I'll only need five minutes. Come  _on_  John. Don't you like this?"

John rolled his eyes. But, truth be told, of course he was liking it. It probably wasn't very decent of him, but still...

"Oh, who cares about decent," Sherlock muttered, dragging them out of that dark alley and pulling them along the road.

"How the—"

"You're biting your lip, and your hands are shoved in your pockets. Your nervous, and your face has 'guilty' written all over it. You're not happy that the woman is  _dead_ , John. You're happy because we are going to solve the case. There. See? It's very decent. It’s about justice…or something."

John nodded blindly, trying to ignore Sherlock's grip on his bicep and the fact that he had noticed that he was biting his lip, which meant he had looked at his mouth. Why that should matter to him was a question he didn’t want to think too much about. He shrugged off his hand and asked, "Where are we going?"

"To the backdoor of the building, John. Keep up." Sherlock put his hands in his pocket and when they reached a turn in the road, he kept walking; the picture of nonchalance. It was darker on that side, and only one or two officers were around. They had reached the other side of the building.

"Sherlock, are we just going to enter a crime scene? You do realise it's illegal?"

"We're going to enter a crime scene and we will not be arrested. Things are always best hid in plain sight, John. Where would you hide a tree? In the forest." John had no idea what Sherlock was babbling about, but he had just moved smoothly towards the building, lifted the tape, and walked right in.

"Sherlock, what are you—"

But before he could finish the sentence, they were interrupted by a burly officer who stepped up to them assertively. "And who are you, son?"

"William, officer. William, and this is my friend Jonathan. Just comin' home from school. Not a problem, I hope? Just across the street, an’ this is a shortcut. Mum's awfully worried. What with the murder an' all. Was too afraid to come from the front, all those scary—"

"Alright, alright," the officer held up his hand. "Move along. Hurry home."

"Yessir," Sherlock said, and walked in. John followed him meekly, too shocked by the sudden change in Sherlock's accent to change anything.

"How did you—"

"Billy taught me. Now come on."

The back door was open, and the small, harshly lit lobby was mostly empty. A narrow stair case ran up the side. Sherlock ran up with surprising energy as always, John following him closely. When they reached the landing, Sherlock began walking down the right corridor.

"Sherlock, where—"

"Shh," Sherlock held a slender finger to his lips. "Look."

The corridor was empty except for two policemen, who were talking to someone with their backs turned. The person was far too engrossed in what the two were saying. It took five seconds for Sherlock to pull him into a room on the side.

"We have about five minutes before they come back in," he whispered, and went to his knees next to the body on the floor. She was a woman, probably mid thirties, dressed in pink, lying on her front.

John almost gagged, but then he was suddenly hit with the realisation  _that they were in a fucking crime scene and they had no way to get out of there what was this lunatic thinking_?

"Sherlock-" he started, but he also realised that Sherlock was too far gone to listen to a word. He had poking and prodding the body quickly and firmly,(did he always just carry a couple of latex gloves in his pocket?) his eyes inspecting every inch of the body with a bloody magnifying glass-  _where the hell had that come from_?

"John, look at this," he said, calling him. John walked over, trying not to step on anything he wasn't supposed to. Sherlock pointed at the word  _Rache_ scraped into the wood right next to the woman's hand.

"Rache? Rachel?" John asked.

"Obviously." Then he grinned. "This is fantastic!"

"Sherlock..."

"What? Come here. What do  _you_ think of it?"

"Try and remember that's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

As if on record, five minutes later, two officers walked in, dressed in body suits. One of them uttered a cry of outrage on seeing the two teenagers in the room.

"Who the hell are these kids? Get out!"

Sherlock stood up immediately, looking at the both of them with polite interest. "Good evening. Sorry, we were just about to leave."

"Damn well you were!" the other one said. Tall, with cropped brown hair, streaked prematurely with grey, a long-ish face. Probably mid twenties to early thirties. He didn't sound particularly angry when he said that, just exasperated.

"Sorry, we live here, my friend just wanted to—" John stared babbling, but Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him along. The two officers went inside the room, resuming their investigation. John was only too glad to get out of the room, but just at the door, Sherlock turned around, leaned against the door, and said, "Oh, by the way, the woman is in her late 30s. Professional person, going by her clothes, probably media, judging from the alarming shade of pink. She's come from Cardiff, intending to stay in London from one night, judging from the size of her suitcase. Suitcase, yes, of course, she has a string of lovers, and none of them knew she was married. Oh yes, she's been having an affair. Numerous ones."

Both of them stared at him. John wanted to grab him and run away, because it was a  _really_ bad idea to show off to Scotland Yard, especially the showing off that was so particularly Sherlock. Although even he was shocked at how Sherlock could deduce that much in hardly five minutes.

Sherlock looked extremely pleased with himself. "Thought I'd speed you on your way."

The one who had yelled at Sherlock first just fumed. "Get out of here, you little upstart."

Sherlock shrugged and turned around.

"No, wait," that was the other officer. Sherlock turned around, eyebrows raised. "Yes?"

"Lestrade, you can't be serious—"

"How do you know she's from Cardiff? Having an affair? The suitcase? How do you know that?"

"Elementary. Her coat is wet from rain, but there hasn't been rain for a while in London. The underside of her collar is wet too, so she's turned it up against the wind. Strong wind- she has an umbrella with her which is dry, so too windy to use it. Far, judging from the size of her suitcase, but not very far because her coat hasn't dried yet. She hasn't travelled for more than a few hours. So where in that radius has it rained with strong wind? Easy." He picked his phone out of his pocket, tapped in something on the keypad, and with a triumphant smirk, turned it around and showed it the room. "Cardiff."

"The affair?" The man called Lestrade was looking at him with wide, impressed eyes, his lips parted.

"Look at her jewellery. The rest of it is clean, but not her ring. The inside is cleaner than the outside, so it's been regularly removed. Look at that alarming nail polish- she obviously doesn't work with her hands, so why remove the ring? Affair. String of lovers likely."

"The suitcase?"

"The mud tracks on her  _heels_ , inspector. Honestly, what is it  _like_ in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."

"Sherlock!" John seethed, but the inspector was too shocked to notice. He looked at John as if to ask,  _is this kid for real_? John simply shrugged.

"Yes, that was all very clever, but we would've gotten that much easily, kid—" but the brown-haired inspector waved him off.

"That was smart," he said. "What else can you tell us?"

Sherlock was trying very hard to act uninterested, but John could feel the self-satisfaction radiating off of him in waves. "That message," he pointed to the  _Rache_ scratched on the wood. "Does she know anyone named Rachel?"

" _Rachel,"_ the other officer laughed harshly. "The killer isn't that stupid, kid. Rache is the German word for revenge, so she was obviously—"

"Writing an angry note in German?" Sherlock prompted. "Of course. She's spend the last few seconds of her life scribbling  _revenge_ into the floor. If I were you, I'd find out who Rachel was."

The inspector looked impressed. He held out his hand for Sherlock. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade. We could use someone like you in the force. Maybe once you're older you could join. But as for now, you should-"

Sherlock snorted. "Oh  _please_. Scotland Yard? How tedious. Now tell me, where is the suitcase?"

Lestrade's hand fell. "Suitcase?"

"Yes, suitcase!" Sherlock said impatiently, pacing the room. "She obviously had a suitcase, so where is it? Did she eat it?"

Both the inspectors frowned at each other. "There was no suitcase."

"Maybe she left it in the hotel?" John suggested hopefully.

"No no," Sherlock waved him off dismissively. "Look at her hair, a woman this colour co ordinated—" Then Sherlock made a great 'oh!' of amazement and gripped John by his shoulders. "That's it, John!  _Pink!"_

"Pink?" John repeated.

"Pink?" the inspectors echoed.

"Yes, pink!" then he looked around and noticed the bewilderment on everyone's faces. "Oh look at you lot," he drawled. "You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so  _relaxing_."

"Sherlock," John said again warningly, and he pouted at him. Then he said to Lestrade, "Inspector, don't you  _see!_ Her case! It's pink!"

"Pink? Okay, so it's pink. How does that help?"

"She must have left it in the car when the killer drove her here...a bag that particular shade...would attract a great deal of attention, don't you think? The first thing the killer would do would be to get rid of it at the first opportunity."

"So where could we find it?"

"It can't be far," Sherlock said, the words tumbling out of his mouth. "Has to be within a 2 or 3 mile radius...anywhere you could dispose of it easily. Come on, John! John, don't stare, it's such a waste of time, come  _on_!"

And before either DI Lestrade, or the other officer, or even John, could even say a word, Sherlock grabbed his arm and dragged him down the corridor.

"Wait!" the inspector called after him. "You're very clever and everything, but this is dangerous! Leave this matter to the police, kids!"

"I'm clever and you can't tell me what to do!" Sherlock called gaily after them, and soon they were out of the crime scene, running down the road, the sky now almost dark.

Sherlock and John stopped once they were outside, leaning against the wall of the opposite building, John panting and half his body weight leaning against the door, and Sherlock panting but positively bouncing with excitement.

"John! Why are you  _waiting_?" Sherlock asked him, appalled. "Come  _on!"_

"Give me a minute, Sherlock. Let me...catch my...breath."

"Catching your breath?  _Boring_. We have a murder to solve."

"Sherlock, this is is a serial killer we're talking about—"

"I know," Sherlock said gleefully. "Isn't it  _wonderful_?"

John could think of a dozen different ways to spend a Wednesday night, one of which was finishing his homework. What he had not expected, in his whole life, was that he would be spending the self-same Wednesday night rummaging through a garbage dump with Sherlock. Not that he was particularly scared of this murderer, in fact he couldn't deny the adrenaline rushing through his veins...but he did  _not_ expect being friends with Sherlock to entail  _this_. Not that he was complaining.

"Sherlock, this is the fourth one we've tried—"

"John, you're being tiresome." Sherlock's muffled voice came from the depths of the dump.

"Get out of there, you—"

"Aha!" Sherlock cried victoriously, and held up a medium-sized, bright pink case in his hands.

John's eyes widened.

"Is that—"

"The victim's suitcase, yes," Sherlock jumped out of the pile of garbage bags, holding the bag aloft and them dropping it on the floor. "I  _told_ you. Told those idiots. That's the problem, John. No one believes me."

John couldn't help himself from grinning. "So what do we do now?"

Sherlock shot him a manic grin. "Now? Why, we catch the killer, of course."

 

***

 

There were many things that Mycroft detested. He detested people in general. He was not too fond of dogs. He considered any kind of denim apparel to be frightfully degrading. And he  _hated_ conversations.

But what he detested most of all were conversations with his  _parents_.

Mycroft did not hate his parents, of course- and he was sure Sherlock did not either. He was above such petty behaviour. But even he knew that his parents were less than stellar, and they did not know how to handle Sherlock. And in the end, they would use him as a means through which they could question Sherlock's activities and air their doubts as to whether his little brother would amount to anything at all.

"Mycroft, what do you make of this...this  _boy_ that Sherlock brought home today?" his mother asked, putting down the novel she was reading to look at Mycroft as he sat down on the armchair next to the fire.

"Which boy?" his father asked sharply. "He brought home a boy? Joyce, you did not tell me."

"Didn't I? You were not at home, dear. I have absolutely no idea who he was. He was from school, I think."

How  _tedious_. "Did Sherlock happen to mention a name?" Although Mycroft knew exactly who she was talking about. He had dropped both of them off himself.

"Yes, I suppose he did. Something with J, I think."

"John Watson. He's a friend from school, I gather."

"Sherlock does not have friends," his father said stiffly.

"Although I agree with you, father, recent circumstances fail to validate that statement."

"What are you saying? Are you saying our son has finally got himself a friend? It must be for some experiment, I suppose."

"No, actually," Mycroft said, trying to hold on to his temper. He didn't lose it easily, but this conversation was trying his patience. "It doesn't have such a...phlegmatic origin."

"But, Mycroft, be reasonable—"

"I am being very reasonable. In any case, mother, it is a capital mistake to make premature evaluations, don't you think? Perhaps we should simply hold our tongues on the matter."

"Should we ask him about it? We should ask him. He's never been a very good liar," his father looked pleased with himself after coming to this conclusion.

"Hardly. Sherlock could lie through his teeth if he wanted. But, to answer your question, father, leave him alone. He's probably sleeping." Mycroft knew very well that Sherlock was not at home. All he could hope for was that John would keep an eye on him and prevent him jumping headfirst into danger, which was his usual instinct. John was easy to read, and it was a simple enough deduction that he was enamoured with his brother. Hopefully that would mean he would keep him safe. Far be it for Mycroft to stop his brother from 'solving a case'. Besides, Anthea would keep him informed. Two hours ago they had been to Laurister Gardens.

His mother sniffed haughtily. "I do not approve of this relationship. We don't even know who this boy is."

"This is the first friendship that Sherlock has cultivated, mother. I think it would be in his best interests for us to leave it at that."

"But, dear—"

"Do you think that I would allow John Watson to remain in my brother's life if I was convinced that he was a less that benevolent influence? You think too lowly of me, mother."

"But Mycroft—" his father started.

"I will keep the both of them under observation. The moment I am convinced that John is  _not_ exerting a positive effect on my brother, he will be removed immediately. Now will you please give the matter a rest?"

***

It had been a long time since Sherlock was this tired.

He trudged into his house at half past midnight, (the back door was remarkably easy to pick, they should get better security) still in his grimy uniform, and tumbled into his bed.

 _No needles tonight,_ he thought.  _No nicotine_. His success was providing an altogether better high. This was the most fantastic case he had got in  _months_. And he had solved it in a  _day_.

But, there was something else as well that was giving his mind that particular exhalation, and it was of a rather unconventional type.

 _John_.

Sherlock couldn't believe that he had been with the same person the whole day and not once had he gotten bored, or irritated, or annoyed. Not once had he thought of slinking away so that he could solve it himself.

John was the most wonderful person he had ever met. Sherlock could come to no other conclusion. John had  _enjoyed_ being with him. He hadn't thought him weird, or called him a psycho, and then there was that  _face_ he would make when Sherlock had something particularly clever. Like he was  _awed_ , not irritated. How could such a person exist? Surely someone who wouldn't tire of Sherlock so easily was a mythical creature.

He remembered how that cab driver had almost made him take those pills. He would have too, he thought. It was entirely possible. And then John came hurtling out of nowhere, tackling him to the ground, shouting at Sherlock, saying something along the lines of, "You complete wanker!" he had had been pretty good with the ropes too. And then he had been frightfully dull and had called the police in advance.

"I  _knew_ you were going to find him," John had said. "I was worried about what you would  _do_ once you did that."

John had guts. John was brave. Well, obviously. Someone who willingly spent so much time with Sherlock of all people would have to possess a certain degree of bravery.

Sherlock suddenly felt a twinge of regret when he had told John yesterday that he didn't have friends. This was the highest idiocy on his part. John Watson had offered to be his  _friend_. Since when had  _anyone_ done that? Since when had Sherlock actually  _wanted_ to be friends with someone?

It was something that had never happened before. What was so special about John, really? Sherlock tried to bring out that little box in his Mind Palace that had the list. It was a calming room (because John had a strange way of calming) ..full of sunshine and wooden floors. It reminded him of John. But when he recalled the points on the list they seemed so... _inadequate_. Surely there were not just four reasons why Sherlock should be friends with John.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and sent John a text.

_John._

_What I said that day. About not having friends. It's not true._

_I only have one._

_Good night._

_(it's you.)_

_SH_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock," John said warningly. "What have I said about being nice?"
> 
> "Your ceaseless gossip is making it difficult to think please thank you," Sherlock answered without a beat, not even glancing up from his microscope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i've been MIA for a while, so for those of you who are following my omegaverse fic: worry not! I will be updating soon. For those of you who are just following this: enjoy! and leave me a review if you can <3

Days passed. Weeks passed. It had been almost a month since John had come to this school, a month since..well...a month since Sherlock.

Sherlock was great, no doubt about that. Oh, but there were days. There were days when John would have liked nothing better than to throttle him.

Usually it was the days when Sherlock was  _bored_.

John dreaded those days. Sometimes the boredom frightened him, because even though the scars had faded from his forearm, John had a few theories why he did it. He was convinced now that they were a thing of the past, but still. It frightened him. They came often enough, but not often enough that he couldn't handle them.

John was always trying to think of new ways to keep Sherlock  _thinking,_ to keep him  _doing_ but nothing was ever good enough for that bloke.

Like, the week before. John prided himself on the fact that he hadn't murdered him that day. He wondered idly if Sherlock would come back from the dead just to solve his own murder.

***

_It had been one of those lazy afternoons, when Sherlock's parents weren't home (bless them) and Mycroft was out, doing whatever shadowy work he did with his umbrella (bless him very much) and John was stretched out on Sherlock's messy bed, in his messy room, with messy-haired Sherlock bent over his microscope, examining whatever rubbish he had nicked from the woods outside school._

_Although he wasn't completely sure where he had gotten it. Safer for his sanity not to ask._

_John was reading one of his numerous crime novels. It was surprising how many he had really, and John rather enjoyed the days when Sherlock would take one down and read out the first few pages in his deep, rumbling baritone, after which he would throw it away, denounce it 'boring' and tell him who the murderer was, all in the space of five minutes. Sometimes he would solve it by the end of the first page. On the days he was feeling particularly boastful, the first paragraph was all he needed._

_John's eyes were growing heavy as he lay there, reading...the words seemed to drift on the yellowed pages. And the sun was just filtering through those blue curtains; the slightest breeze ruffling his hair, might as well close his eyes, nothing was happening—_

_"Oh, for god's sake!"_

_John's eyes snapped open. He immediately sat up, turning around to see Sherlock standing up now, running his hands through his dark hair, his lips a hard, straight line._

_"Sherlock," John muttered tiredly. "What is it?"_

_"John, how can you just lay there on that bed?" he demanded accusingly, waving his arms in his direction._

_John put the book back on the shelf. Here we go again¸ he thought. "What am I supposed to do? You're experimenting on some rodent brains or whatever—"_

_"Why would I be experimenting on rodent brains?"_

_"The point being, you great big clot—that nothing important is happening and I'm sleepy. Hence I was sleeping. Trying to. Nice and logical for you? Good. Now let me take a nap."_

_"John. Stop this at once. I disapprove of this. You can't lay there and do nothing while I'm experimenting on rodent brains because I have—."_

_"Didn’t you say-"_

_—" nothing to do."_

_"No," John said determinedly, holding up a finger. "No, Sherlock don't say it."_

_"But John, I'm—"_

_"NO, Sherlock—"_

_"Bored! So bored!" Sherlock proclaimed loudly, and began to pace the room, ranting at the top of his lungs._

_"No murder for a month, John! What sort of a country do we live in? Quiet, John! It's quiet. Can't you see how distasteful it is? What am I expected to do? What can—"_

_John decided he didn't need to hear it. He flopped back against the pillows, closing his eyes. It was an art that took patience to master, but if you knew the method, you could drown out the sound of Sherlock's voice..._

_"...And Mycroft is making things difficult for me, as usual. Why won’t he just go back to London? One would think that one's brother would honour the relationship—I am no fan of sentiment, as you know, John, but—" He stopped momentarily. "John? John! Are you sleeping again? Have you not been listening to me?" He went over to the bed and shook his shoulder. "You are a dreadful friend, John. Number 5 in How to Make Friends is 'be a good listener.' And you're sleeping. It must be so nice being able to turn your brain off like that—"_

_"Sherlock!" John shouted. "Shut up!"_

_"But—"_

_"No! That's it. Shut up." He put his finger on Sherlock's lips. "Not. A. Word."_

_Sherlock didn't say anything, which wasn't very surprising, because John's finger was pinned against his lips. Which...was distracting._

_He brought it down. Sherlock looked at him, his pale eyes wide._

_"John, I think you are overreacting."_

_"Me? I'm overreacting? You're the one having a hissy fit because you have nothing better to do than dissect dead rats!"_

_"I was not dissecting them—"_

_"That is not the point! Sherlock, you can't expect someone to get murdered every other day just for your amusement!"_

_"But people do get murdered every day, John, it's statistics, someone may be getting murdered right this very moment!"_

_"You just helped Musgrave with the family property two bloody days ago!"_

_"Family property!" Sherlock began pacing the room once more, with his nose tragically up in air. "Yes, John, two days! Two days of utter boredom! That was hardly taxing, I need something, John! Dear god, John, can't you see? My brain will stagnate at this rate!"_

_"Sherlock stop acting like a raving lunatic and calm down!"_

_"Calm down? How on earth do you expect me to calm down? I'm bored, John! Hardly the state of affairs during which one would be expected to remain calm!"_

_John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Count to ten. Don't punch him. Don't punch him. What can we do to get him to shut up? Come on, Watson. Think._

_John opened his eyes. "Where are the games?"_

_Sherlock stopped and stared at John like he had gone mad. Which, in his defence, wasn't too far off. "What games?"_

_"The games! The games you said you used to play with Mycroft—"_

_"Why are you bringing up my brother? If you think this is a topic that would calm me down—"_

_"It's here somewhere, I've seen it," John jumped off the bed and began to crawl on the rug, looking underneath the bed and underneath the table, and in the dirtiest corners of Sherlock's room—under the glass cabinet where that horrid skull leered at him—_

_"John, it is your sanity I fear for now, I strongly advise you to get off the floor."_

_"Aha!" John held the longish cardboard box aloft. "I've found it!" He got up from the floor, dropping it on the bed. "Sit."_

_Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Cluedo? I've never played it. I don't play games. Especially not with Mycroft. And definitely not with you."_

_"Sherlock," John said, menacingly. "SIT."_

_~Twenty minutes later~_

_"No. Nope. No way. I am not playing this anymore." John rolled off the bed onto the carpet._

_Sherlock stared at him, appalled, the manic gleam in his eyes unwavering. "John, don't be boring! Why are you being boring?"_

_"Because the victim can't have done it, you idiot!"_

_Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, please, John, even you would be able to say it's the only possible solution."_

_"It's not in the rules, Sherlock!"_

_"Well then the rules are wrong!"_

_"Oh obviously!" John stood up. "Everyone's wrong expect you, aren't they?"_

_"Well, in this case, yes—"_

_John stomped out of the room and didn't return for an hour. Sherlock hadn't been able to find him anywhere in the house._

Or the week before that. That had been an absolute disaster.

_"Sherlock, where are we going?" School had just gotten over, and Sherlock had impatiently dragged John outside, away from the very normal conversation he was having with Mike. He didn't have many of those. But Sherlock was insistent._

_"To the library!" he replied gleefully, picking up pace with those absurdly long legs of his._

_John rolled his eyes. "There is a library in the school, Sherlock."_

_Sherlock looked at him as if he had offended him greatly by uttering such nonsense. "You expect me to go to the school library for research? How degrading, John!"_

_"What research?"_

_"Research of the highest importance. Come."_

_The library was a good one, although John hardly ever frequented it. When they walked inside, Sherlock had immediately run off into the depths of the room, and John had resigned himself to the fact that he was about to spend two hours of absolute boredom during which Sherlock would flitter from shelf to shelf, complaining about said library's inadequacies. Just a regular day._

_The check out desk was empty, and there were very few people in the library. John leaned against the desk, thinking it better not to get involved with Sherlock at this moment. Although Sherlock had probably assumed John was behind him, which explained his muttering of, "John, this is absolutely distasteful. I can find nothing here!"_

_But thinking people might think Sherlock crazy because he was talking to himself, he followed him, into the Q-T section of the library. He was cursing under his breath, running his fingers down volume after volume, removing books, flipping through the pages aggressively, and shoving them back into any place._

_"Sherlock—"_

_"John, how am I to carry out my experiment at this rate?!"_

_"Sherlock—"_

_"Um, may I help you?" Sherlock had barely registered the voice, but John looked behind him to see a slender, pale girl nervously biting her lip and staring at Sherlock. She was about the same age as them, with dark red hair, wearing a pink jumper and jeans._

_John shoved Sherlock. "She's asking you something."_

_"I haven't got time for trifles. Tell her to go away."_

_"Sherlock!" John looked apologetically at the girl. "I'm sorry. He's an idiot. I don't think he needs any help, thanks."_

_"Oh, that's alright. He's always going about like that," the girl stepped into the corridor and smiled at John. "He also usually ends up needing help, so I'll just wait here. He'll forget he said no and ask me all the same."_

_She was sort of pretty, John though. Sherlock was being his usual annoying self, so he might as well strike a conversation._

_"So you know him?"_

_"Oh, yes, he comes here quite often. I work here part time. I'm Molly, by the way. Molly Hooper." She looked expectantly at Sherlock, but he was still looking._

_"John, John Watson." He stretched out his hand, and she shook it, but she kept on looking furtively at Sherlock. She was blushing. Oh dear God, he thought. Please don't tell me._

_"Are you a friend of his? He always comes alone."_

_"Oh, yeah. I've been told that. Yes, we're friends."_

_"Would the two of you stop flirting with each other and be quiet?" He looked accusingly at Molly. "Isn't this supposed to be a library? A rubbish excuse for it, yes, but a library all the same. Don't you have those horrendous posters everywhere? 'Maintain silence at all times' or something of the sort?"_

_Molly blushed a deep scarlet. "Yes, of course, I'm sorry."_

_"Stop being rude, you cock." John snapped._

_"Rude? Hardly. She's being highly inconsiderate." He turned to Molly. "Miranda. I need a book on the solar system. Go get it for me."_

_John gaped at him. Okay, he was really going to punch him this time. "Sherlock, her name is—"_

_"No, it's alright," Molly quickly said. "Yes, of course, I'll get one for you. It's not here, but there's another—"_

_"Why are you talking so much? Aren't you supposed to help people find books?"_

_"Yes, yes," She blushed again and left._

_"Sherlock, what was all that about?" John smacked the back of his head._

_"Ow!" Sherlock looked affronted. "What was that for?"_

_"Why were you being so mean to her? And her name is Molly, for god's sake, don't you come here often?"_

_"How is her name important to me? She's an assistant, she brings me books, our relationship doesn't warrant the use of each other's names."_

_"Maybe not, but it's called being polite, you insensitive berk."_

_"Polite? What a waste of time. Why would I do that?"_

_"Because I'm telling you to."_

_"But John—"_

_"Apologise to her when she comes back."_

_"What? John, I—"_

_"I said apologise, you twat." John crossed his arms and looked determinedly at him._

_Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine."_

_"And how could you not have noticed that she likes you?"_

_"Likes me? How on earth did you come to that conclusion?" Sherlock looked at him as though he had never met anyone more idiotic._

_"No one would stand your sunny personality unless they were genuinely attracted to you."_

_“You stand my sunny personality,” Sherlock pointed out vaguely, glancing at a book._

_John stared at hm, his heart stuttering for a second. “Well, yeah, but-“_

_"Leave it. I don't care, and I'm sure she's aware that the feelings are not mutual."_

_"Oh, trust me, mate, I can see that. Would it hurt to not be an arse?"_

_"I am not an arse. You told me to apologise, I'll apologise."_

_"Good."_

_Molly came back then, panting, but smiling nervously. "Here," she said breathlessly, handing the book to Sherlock. "Sorry it took so long. I just—"_

_"Molly. That's your name isn't it?" Sherlock looked expectantly at her._

_"Yes," Molly replied, surprised._

_"Good. John had brought to my attention that you are currently romantically attracted to me. I feel it is—"_

_Molly's jaw dropped. "What?" she shrieked. She looked at John. "What?" she repeated. "No! No, no, no, I just...it's not—but I—"_

_John gaped at Sherlock. "You fool, that's not what I—"_

_"I feel," Sherlock continued, more insistently. "That it is my duty to inform you that this sort of thing is really not my area, so save yourself the trouble." Then he smiled widely, and said, "Thank you for the book."_

_Molly was still in a state of shock. John smacked his palm against his face, and the sight of John's despair seemed to remind Sherlock of something._

_"Oh, yes of course. Oh, and I'm..er...sorry."_

_Molly seemed to gain some of her composure. "For what?"_

_Now Sherlock looked uncertain. "I'm...not entirely sure. John informed me that I must, so I.."_

_"Okay!" John said loudly. "You've got your book! You've said sorry! Our work here is done. Come on, Sherlock!" Then he grabbed Sherlock's bicep and dragged him out, the dark haired boy still extremely confused with the situation._

_"John, I do not—"_

_"Shut it, Sherlock, or so help me, I will shut you up myself."_

_Sherlock did not speak._

John smiled at the memory. Then he smiled at Sherlock, whose attention was currently fixed on whatever he had plopped under the microscope.

They were in the chemistry lab right now; they had a free period, but it was raining outside so they couldn't go to the woods as usual. In fear of Sherlock declaring that he was 'bored' again, John had had the bright idea of suggesting he find something to do in the Chemistry lab.

" _Really John, you are excelling yourself today," he had said approvingly. "It may be that you are yourself not luminous but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing any real genius have the remarkable ability to—"_

" _I've got to confess, Sherlock, for a moment there I actually thought you were complimenting me."_

" _I_ was  _complimenting you," he replied primly._

_***_

He was looking at the bottles of chemicals in the glass cabinet, amusing himself by guessing them all while Sherlock worked quietly behind him, when two boys walked in.

John looked up, Sherlock took no notice. He recognized them both, but knew only one of them well enough to say hello.

"Hello, Victor. What are you doing here?" he smiled at him. He didn't like him very much, particularly, (and he didn't know why) but he always tried to be nice.  _Unlike some people I know_ , he thought wryly.

"What's up, John?" Victor smiled back at him, pulling out a stool and sitting down. "This is Henry, Henry Baskerville."

"Cheers, mate," John said, shaking his hand. He knew little about Henry except that he was rich; he lived in the Baskerville Estate in the country, and he was a year older than them. Henry returned his greeting.

"I'm not even going to try to greet Holmes, he looks busy," Victor joked.

John scoffed. "He's not busy, he's just occupying himself. If I leave him with nothing to do, he'll turn into a raving lunatic, complaining about how bored he is."

"I am conducting an experiment of the highest importance," Sherlock said defensively. "And your ceaseless gossip is making it difficult to think."

"Sherlock," John said warningly. "What have I said about being nice?"

"Your ceaseless gossip is making it difficult to think please thank you," Sherlock answered without a beat, not even glancing up from his microscope.

John rolled his eyes. "Anyway," he turned his attention back to the two boys. "What's up?"

"I'm having a party this weekend," Henry said. "Thought I'd invite the two of you."

John looked at them, surprised. They wanted to invite  _them_? They wanted to invite  _Sherlock_?

"I know what you're thinking mate, but honestly, I haven't got a problem with you  _or_ Holmes, and I doubt anyone else does. Well, maybe  _him_. Sometimes." He poked a thumb at Sherlock.

John bristled immediately. "They just don't know him," he said.

"Yeah, I know. No offence mate," Henry held up his hands in surrender. "So, can you come? I know he won't go without you, and vice versa."

"Yeah, I don't see why not." John grinned. He hardly ever spoke to anyone else, except the boys on the rugby team. But he had noticed that no one had been mean or rude to him the last month. Well except Anderson and Donnavan. But they didn't count. So maybe that was a good sign?

"Excellent," They both shook hands with him again and left.

John sat next to Sherlock and said, "Well, how about that, huh?"

Sherlock looked up from his microscope, one dark eyebrow raised. There was a little red indent near his eye where the metal must have dug in. "A  _party_?"

"Yes, a party, Sherlock. They invited us, and it's not nice to say no. Not to their faces, at least."

"Boring. We're not going." Sherlock bent his head downwards, as if signalling the end of the conversation.

"Yes, we are."

"No, we're not."

"Sherlock!" John said exasperated. "Come on. You don't have any friends beside me, it'd do you good to socialize with other people."

He looked back up again, mouth open. " _Socialize?_ With  _people_? John, do you not know me at all?"

"I know you better than anyone else, which is why I'm telling you that you have to come."

"But  _John_ ," he whined. "It's going to be tedious."

"Tedious or not, we should go. If you go and talk to other people, they'll realise you're not as much of a tosser as you think."

Sherlock frowned. "Why do you care what other people think of me?"

Sherlock had a knack of saying things that made John want to smack him upside the head and embrace him at the same time. But usually the urge to smack him was stronger.

"Because you're my friend, Sherlock, and I don't like it when other people think ill of you."

"Other people are boring. Why do their opinions matter?"

"Let's talk about the party. We are going. It'll be fun."

"No, it will not," Sherlock said disdainfully, scrunching up his nose.  "There will be  _people,_ and they will be drunk, because that's exactly what these parties entail. The alcohol won't even be  _good,_  despite how posh Baskerville is. It will be a night of drunken debauchery and terrible music, with dreadful games like Twister and Spin the Bottle, people will try to deduce who likes who- and I promise you, their deductions will be off- and who's been shagging who—that's easy enough, a fool could tell you that, and you will get nothing from it except a headache and perhaps a stolen wallet."

John sighed. Well, there was only way to convince him.

He leaned forward. "Did you know that my uncle is a doctor?"

"I was aware that a close male relative was in the medical field, yes. Elementary."

"Yes, you're clever, of course you did. If you come with me to the party, I'll convince him to let you into the morgue and you can take home a body part to experiment on."

Sherlock immediately sat straighter. " _Any_ body part?'

"As long as your request is reasonable."

"But  _any_ body part?"

"Yes." John smirked. "Do we have a deal?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I didn't know you were capable of bribery."

"Aren't I full of surprises?" John grinned.

***

Sherlock did not like this  _AT ALL._

The music was too loud; the lyrics were hideous with barely-concealed sexual innuendos, the food was pathetic, the games more so, and he was growing tired of watching people grind against each other as if they were trying to make a fire.

Henry's house was nice enough, and big enough, and his parents were out of town. Everything was easily deducible, and while that had kept him occupied for a while, the music was preventing him from thinking clearly.

Then there were the  _girl_ s.

What part of,  _Not My Area_ did they not understand? There were at least three of them who asked him to dance with them. One of them was a serial adulterer, one had three cats (definitely not) and one was bisexual- and while Sherlock didn't care about anyone's sexuality, even a fool could tell that she was trying to make the redhead at the punch table jealous. And one girl specifically- Janine, her name was—who kept coming. When he declined her offer three times, she had giggled and said, "Oh, I get it. You're gay! I could get a boy for you, if you like."

John had burst out laughing at that. It had been worth it to see him laugh, but really, the constant offers were getting out of hand.

But John looked like he was having fun, and far be it for Sherlock to curtail that fun.

 _Keep it together_ , he told himself.  _This is for John. And the promise of the body part. Make sure he doesn't forget. Remind him if he forgets. Keep on reminding him until he takes you there_.

Someone had shoved a can of beer in his hand, and Sherlock had scoffed and thrown it away.  _Beer_.  _Honestly? This is the highlight of the party? What a waste._

"Sherlock," John shouted in his ear over the music. The hair at the back of Sherlock's neck stood up at the proximity. "Go dance with Janine."

"What?" Sherlock looked at him appalled. "I am not here to dance!"

"At least  _try_ to have fun. Go on! You'll like it." John's hair was dishevelled, and his eyes were bright. Sherlock had a crazy, irrational urge to fix his hair into place.

"Did you know that Henry's father is a smuggler?"

"What?" John laughed. "Sherlock, you're here to enjoy yourself, not deduce. Go dance with Janine. She really likes you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  _Of course_ John would say that. "I'm aware, she made her carnal intent crystal clear. But John, she's a  _giggler_. You know I detest  _gigglers._ "

"Rubbish. She's pretty and clever. Go."

Before Sherlock could reply, someone walked up to the both of them. Girl, brunette, their age, in their year- he knew her. The same girl he had seen talking to John that day he had rushed home without him. She was a good enough student, she had an affinity for biology like John, but not better that John, her mother was a beautician and her father was in some sort of business- as far as he could tell—

"Sherlock!" John was shaking his shoulder. He looked at him.

"I'm going to dance with Sarah. I'm sending Janine."

"But, John—"

But Sarah had dragged him away.

Sherlock didn't like it. He didn't like Sarah, she wasn't good enough for John.  _Well, then, who_ was  _good enough for him_? Now he had nothing to do. Obviously. What had he expected? He could hardly expect John to stay with him the whole time, people liked John- it was a tedious quality, in fact—so of course they would want John to hang out with them as well. Sherlock didn't have a  _claim_ over John, not more than anyone else. He knew all this. It was all very logical and all very rational, which was supposed to be comforting. Logic calmed him down. Why wasn't it working now? Why did the logic seem lopsided all of a sudden?

"Hey, you," Janine playfully pushed his shoulder. Sherlock stiffened. Now she was touching him. Why was she touching him? He did not want to be touched. Not now.

He looked at her. She fluttered her eyelashes and flipped her hair. She stank of alcohol and she was  _definitely_ not wearing anything under that dress. Dear God. She was clearly trying to indicate that she wanted Sherlock to shag her. This made him panic a little.

"Hello, Janine," he answered evenly. He didn't want to be rude. He had promised John that he would maintain a modicum of politeness today. But obviously, there would be a reasonable limit. If she started  _touching_ him again...

"Your little pet's dancing with Sarah. You look all blue standing here alone. Care to dance with me?"

"John is not my pet, he is my friend. And no, I would not. Please go away." He handed her the can of beer. "Here. A parting gift.”

Janine laughed. "It must be a pleasure being friends with you, Sherlock Holmes." She drank the beer. "Mmm. Is this yours?"

"Yes."

"Dance with me."

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Come on. Look at John, he's dancing. You should too." And Sherlock did look, he saw John dancing with Sarah, and he looked like he was having fun, and he was spinning her around and laughing, and—

"Very well. Come on."

Janine grinned. "Oh, aren't you a darling," she drawled, and grabbed his arm, pulling him into the middle of the room. Sherlock decided not to upbraid her for this; they couldn't dance without touching. He  _did_ hope, however, that she would retain herself from rubbing against him, he didn't mind dancing, obviously, it had been a while since he had—but the grinding was  _not_ acceptable.

She smiled, hooking her arms behind his neck, and Sherlock gingerly placed his hands on her hips. Well, this was definitely no waltz. He would have to make do.

"You know how to dance!" she said excitedly, as they moved.

"Yes I do," he said. "Watch." He pulled away from her, holding on to her, spun her around, dipped her so low her hair swept the floor, and pulled her back up, against his chest. Someone behind them whistled.

"Whew," she breathed, blowing her hair off her face. "You're good."

They continued the dancing. "I know."

She pressed herself closer, which wasn't entirely welcome, but he didn't say anything. "So tell me. Are you really gay?"

"I erm..I don't really identify myself as anything," he answered honestly. Although he didn't see the point of discussing his sexuality.

"Oh, still finding your way, are you? Understandable." They twirled around some more.

Sherlock made a noncommittal nose as he spun her around. She seemed to like that.

"I always thought—well most of the school thinks—you and John, you know."

"John is not gay."

"Obviously, seeing from the way he's getting it on with Sarah."

"What?" Sherlock frowned at her. His grip slackened a bit, but he fixed it.  _Sloppy dancing_ , he chided himself.

"Well—oooh—" she exclaimed. "Looks like's having fun," She gestured to somewhere behind them.

"What are you talking about?" Nevertheless, he spun them around smoothly to see what she was gesturing to.

The last time he had seen John, he had been dancing with Sarah. Which wasn't pleasant, but understandable. Now John was still dancing, but they were dancing closer now, and...kissing.

Sherlock stopped dancing.

"Sher—" Janine started to say.

"I have to go," he said, his voice shaking a little.

"But—"

He pushed her away and moved the throng of dancers, only one thought in his mind:  _I must get out of here_.

He was being illogical. Again. He knew that John would have wanted to go home together, Sherlock would have dropped him off at the station, or Mycroft would come and pick them up, but—but—there John was, with his lips on Sarah's, dancing like—like—

 _Why does it bother you so much_?

Sentiment always bothers me.

 _Your friendship with John says otherwise_.

Indeed. Why  _did_ it bother him? It shouldn't. John was free to do whatever he wanted with whoever he wanted, to  _do_ whoever he wanted, and Sherlock was a fool if he thought no one would want to kiss John. It wasn't like  _he_ wanted to kiss John, how ridiculous. It wasn't as if he was—was— _jealous_. No, of course not. That was a degree of sentiment he was not capable of. He was fond of John, of course, but that certainly didn't mean he would be jealous of Sarah, who was dancing with John, who was holding him like that, kissing him like that—

No. The very idea was ludicrous.

He was at the door, about to leave, when someone grabbed his shoulder.

"Sherlock, where're you going?"

He turned around to John, who was panting, and whose cheeks were pink from dancing and lips red from kissing.

"I'm going home," he said brusquely.

"Wait, what? Sherlock, we agreed—"

"I've kept my side of the agreement, John. I've been here for two hours, which in my opinion is more than enough. This party is dull and Janine is dull, and I am leaving."

"But I thought—"

"Well, you thought  _wrong_ , didn't you?"

Sherlock immediately knew from John's face that he had said too much.  _You idiot_ , he chastised himself, but the damage was done.

"John, I'm—" he started, in a pathetic attempt to fix it.

"No," John held up a finger. "Don't say you're sorry. You're right. I just thought that you would had fun here, and you would suck it up long enough for me to have fun. I would never have come here without you, you know that, and I'm always with you when you need to go to the sodding library, or you're 'bored', if you have a mad urge to investigate the murder in the next town, but—"

"How the hell am I supposed to have fun when you're snogging Sarah?" Sherlock suddenly shouted.

He immediately regretted it. He was not supposed to say anything that would upset John. He was not supposed to upset John, full stop. This was possibly the worst thing he could do. Then why had he said it?

"What has Sarah got to do with anything?" John demanded.

"Nothing," Sherlock said, quickly, moving towards the door. "Forget I said it."

"No," John held his shoulder to hold him back. "Do you not like Sarah?"

"I  _detest_ Sarah. How could you not have picked up on that?"

"Not all of us are bloody geniuses, you twat!" Sherlock flinched at the tone of his voice. John had shouted at him many times, but John had never been quite so angry. The situation was going further and further from his control. Why couldn't he just stay shut? Now John was mad, and if he—if he—no. He mustn't think like that. John wouldn't leave him over something as silly as this.

Or would he?

"John, I must leave."

"Look, I know she's rude, and I've told her that she needs to be nice to you if she wants to talk to me at all, and she understands that—"

"John." Sherlock bent down so he could look John in the eyes. "It doesn't matter. Go. Dance with her. Victor will take you home, I've told him. Goodbye."

"Sherlock-!"

"Bye."

***

Sherlock stood impatiently outside the massive iron gates, half hoping John would come after him. But he didn't. He drew his coat closer around him, turning up the collar; it was cold. December was on its way.

 _Don't be mad, John_ , he thought. But he wondered if  _he_ was mad with him. It would be irrational. And he hated lack of reason. And for a stupid reason as that.

He angrily tapped a number on his phone.

"Hello, brother mine," Mycroft drawled. "Having a good time?"

"What do you  _think_?" Sherlock spat. "It's a party. With people and alcohol. What kind of a time do you  _think_ I'm having?"

"You sound upset. What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Why did you call?"

"Come and pick me up."

"So soon? I told mummy you would be home by eleven."

"Mycroft, stop being tedious and asking me questions. Just come and pick me up."

"Is John with you?"

"No."

Pause on the other side for a few moments. "It's a girl, isn't it?"

"Mycroft..."

"Obviously. You cannot possibly imagine that your friendship with John Watson makes him unavailable to the other sex, Sherlock."

"I'm perfectly aware of that!" he snapped. "Come and pick me up."

"I warned you not to get involved."

" _I'm not involved_. PICK.ME.UP."

"I'm ten minutes away. Try not to set anything aflame until I'm there."

The ride home had been tedious.

Sherlock's parents were seated in the living room when he walked in, which he was not ready for.

 _Please don't talk to me_ , he prayed.

"Sherlock, why are you home so soon?"

"Weren't you supposed to come home by eleven?"

"He didn't have fun, of course not, we warned him not to go."

"Where's John? He must have left him behind."

"I  _told_ Mycroft that their friendship was not compatible."

"Would the both of you  _shut up_?" Sherlock yelled at them.  _Do not lose your temper. Do not lose your temper. Be calm. Go to your room._

His parent raised their eyebrows. "Sherlock, dear, it isn't  _our_ fault you didn't enjoy yourself. We  _know_ it's hardly somewhere you would fit in. That's why we told you not to go, we understand you better than you understand yourself." His father said.

"John should have brought you home, shouldn't he have? What do you think, Joyce? I can understand why he didn't  _want_ to, of course—"

"I'm going to bed," Sherlock muttered, and left.

He trudged upstairs, opened his room, and began searching.

 _Where was it? Where the hell had he kept them_?

He ransacked his room, reduced it to shambles; he checked the books on the shelf, flipped through their pages, checked underneath the mattress, underneath the bed, under the rugs, underneath the skull, scattered the carefully laid notes on his desk and rummaged through the drawers; he pushed his fingers under the photos on the display board, took off the display board and looked behind it, everywhere, everywhere until... _aah._

His fingers trembled as he held the little box.

There had been days when he would get so  _bored_ and  _depressed_ that he couldn't go to sleep without it, couldn't go a day without it. He saw no reason in stopping.

Until John.

John had suddenly come into his life, without any warning; a variable dropped into a perfectly balanced equation, and nothing seemed to make sense anymore. The perfect rules that Sherlock guided his life upon, were ceaselessly bent and distorted and now he had to see everything in a different light.

And the experience was...not unpleasant.

The blinding need that would consume him, the desire that gripped his soul and his brain like a vice, to end the insanity inside his head, had suddenly vanished. He didn't need to, not anymore. Every day with John seemed like a new challenge, a puzzle for him to solve, his brain was always, always occupied, interested. John never bored him.

But today the need sparked inside him again; today was a bad day. Sherlock never did them for a stupid reason, it was only on those dark, depressing days when he would be so bored, that he would be in need of a fix. But never...never for something as... _sentimental_  as this. No, never.

He plunged in the needle.

_Bliss._

The world seemed to fade from focus, everything seemed to slow down, and with a sigh of relief he fell against the rug, the syringe rolling from his palm.

It was short while later (or a long while, Sherlock had no idea) that someone knocked on his door.

_Mycroft._

He didn't even wait for an answer, casually strode in.

"Sherlock, what are you doing on the— _oh."_

"Go away," Sherlock muttered, turning away from the door and curling up into a tight ball as if to save himself from a physical attack.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" Mycroft's tone was despairing, something he didn't hear often. He heard the door click shut behind him, and footsteps come closer. He felt him bend down next to him, pick something up and throw it in the bin.

"Get up."

"No. Go away."

"Sherlock, explain. Please."

He sat up then, leaning against the bookshelf as he did so. He felt so  _horrible_. Wasn't it supposed to feel good?

"What was it this time, hmm?" Mycroft's grey eyes were tinged with anger and worry. The frown lines on his forehead made him seem much older than he was. "Cocaine or morphine?"

"It was cocaine, I haven't any of the other," Sherlock's lips twitched upwards.

Mycroft sighed tiredly, and sat down next to him. "Why, Sherlock?" he simply asked, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

Sherlock's eyes were fixed on Mycroft's bare feet, the hem of the blue pyjamas he was wearing.  _Good question_ , he thought.  _Why indeed_?

"You're too stupid to understand," he decided on saying. It sounded petulant and foolish, but then, this was  _Mycroft_. Hardly someone who deserved a mature response from him.

He could feel him roll his eyes. "If you keep going, you know I will send you to rehab."

Sherlock turned sharply to face him. "You wouldn't dare."

"You know I would, Sherlock. You know that when I decide to do something I do it. Unless you explain this behaviour to me, I will send you off tomorrow itself."

Sherlock groaned, carding his fingers in his hair. He tugged mercilessly, hoping that the pain would help him to think. "It's ridiculous."

"I thought so. I don't want to have this discussion with you when you're high, although perhaps this is the best time to speak to you. Go on."

"It's just, that...oh, for God's sake, Mycroft. Why do I care so much? Is there something wrong with me?"

Mycroft pursed his lips, his eyes weary. "It's John, isn't it?"

His name felt like a slap on his face. What point was there of hiding it from Mycroft? Bugger that he was, he would realise anyway.

He nodded.

Mycroft sighed; a long, tired sigh that was perhaps far more telling than any words would be. He leaned his head back against the bookshelf, and for some odd reason, the presence of his brother beside him,  _listening_...was strangely comforting.

"All lives end, brother dear. All hearts are broken. Haven't I told you? Caring is not an advantage."

"And I know that. Which is why it's so shocking that I seem to be disregarding that golden rule entirely. It's worked well enough for me in the past."

"Sherlock, although I have never denied the truth of that statement, I would never dream of imposing it on you. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I  _never_ understand what you're saying. You're terrible at explaining yourself. You're terrible at most things."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "What I'm saying, Sherlock, is this...I have always entertained the possibility of you... _disregarding_ that rule. It's something you would do.”

"Why on earth would you think that?"

"Because you never follow rules. Since when have you followed rules?"

Sherlock shrugged, but couldn't deny the truth of the statement.

"You see, Sherlock...when you allow yourself to feel, it makes you..." He paused for a moment. "Susceptible to pain. And hurt. And loss. I've always been in favour of avoiding those particular emotions, and I've been successful so far. Recent circumstances claim that you, however, have not."

"Mycroft, if this is some other lecture about what a  _disappointment_ I've been—"

"I do not think you are a disappointment, Sherlock. I think the very fact that you're lying here impossibly high is a tribute to the fact that you've realised the true use of emotions after all. That, I feel, is a better success that listing 243 kinds of tobacco."

"What are you  _saying_? Where are you sprouting all this rubbish from? And the tobacco list was useful."

"I'm sure it was," Mycroft got up smoothly. "What I am saying, Sherlock, is this; caring is not an advantage, but that doesn't stop anyone from caring. And it shouldn't stop you either." He waved a hand about vaguely. "I hope this is the last time you do this."

Mycroft walked out then, and Sherlock lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, his brother's words swirling around and around in his head;  _Caring is not an advantage, caring is not an advantage, caring is not an advantage ..._ until they unknowingly lulled him to sleep.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u so much for your comments and kudos guys !! i've been very busy for a while and therefore slow to reply but I'll get back asap! meanwhile you can always hit me up on my tumblr if you want to talk . :>  
> (anyway it's 2 am here and I need to sleep so here u go !!)

 

John woke up that morning with a throbbing pain in his head, which was kind of pathetic, because he usually had better tolerance than this.

He pressed his fingers against his temples, wondering why he was feeling so horrible. He felt...incomplete, somehow. As if he had forgotten to do something terribly important. He lay on his back for several minutes, staring at the ceiling until he remembered.

The events of last night swept past him, in blinding Technicolor, and just like that,  _Sherlock._

Guilt. Raw, undiluted guilt washed over him like a fucking wave and John needed to sit up to quell the overwhelming roll of nausea that went along with it. He wanted to be mad, he really wanted to be angry at Sherlock for just leaving like that, but he  _couldn't_. Because he was Sherlock's friend, god damn it, he was the one who was supposed to  _get_ him.

The party was a stupid idea. Stupid, ridiculous, god-awful insane. To think that Sherlock would enjoy himself there, with all those people around him...it was laughable. Why the hell would he drag him along to what would be, quite plainly, torture for him? John should have been glad that Sherlock found him the most tolerable specimen of the human race, he should have just  _left it at that_.

_How am I supposed to have fun when you're snogging Sarah?_

Why would he say that? Surely he wasn't...jealous? But the very idea seemed mad. Sherlock wouldn't feel  _jealous_. John didn't want him to jealous...did he?

John wanted to see him desperately, so they could talk and make amends and everything could go back to normal again. His friendship with Sherlock had become such a regular, immovable part of his life that the need to fix things was almost an aching longing inside of him. They had fought before, but John had never seen Sherlock so pissed off. Should he be the first one to apologise? Should he make the first move?

John groaned. Being friends with Sherlock Holmes was like navigating a minefield. You had to re think every single step.

He was halfway through his breakfast when he heard his phone ringing in his bedroom. He left his half finished breakfast and ran up the stairs.

"Hello?"

"Are you finished with your breakfast?" Mycroft's voice was cool, crisp; cutting into the phone like ice.

"Er..." John stammered, feeling a bit taken aback. "Not quite. Why exactly have you called?"

"I wish to speak to you. My car is outside. Get dressed and come."

"Wait, I—"

"I am not in the habit of repeating instructions, John. Get dressed and get in the car."

"Um...okay."

 _It sounds like he's kidnapping me_ , John thought. Was he going to take him away to some far-away location and murder him? It seemed exactly the kind of crazy thing he would do...maybe stab him with his umbrella. But then, if he wanted to kill him, he wouldn't do it himself, he clearly wasn't the kind of man to get his hands dirty.

So John shovelled down the rest of his breakfast, (they were good pancakes, he was definitely not wasting them) dressed hurriedly in a jumper and jeans, told his mother he was going to Sherlock's.

" _John, why don't you bring him over one day? I still haven't met him!_

" _I will, mum! Bye. Love you!"_

He went outside, where the familiar black car was parked in the driveway.

 _Back seat or front seat_?

He opened the back door and climbed into the plush leather seats, feeling very awkward and un-coordinated.

Mycroft smiled politely at him and didn't start speaking until he began to drive.

"I am taking you to our house. I feel that you and Sherlock need to communicate."

 _Strange choice of words_. "We  _do_ communicate."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, that's actually quite convenient. I was thinking of going anyway."

"Admirable. Before we reach, however, I want to talk to you about something."

"Okay." Unease pricked the back of John's neck. He had never been alone with Mycroft, he suddenly wished that Sherlock was here. Well, technically, he always wished for Sherlock's presence. He didn't know exactly what that said about him.

"What is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock?"

John stared at him for a few moments, first in shock, and then in anger. "I thought you were aware that we were friends. That being said, I don't see how it's any of your business."

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at him from the rearview mirror. "You're not very afraid of me, are you?"

"I would be if you were frightening," John could feel his temper rising.  _Guess arrogance runs in the family_.

He smiled at that. "Friends," he said, like he was testing the word. "Yes, you are, aren't you? Very well. I will be satisfied with answer for now. Now tell me what happened last night."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm going to speak about that to Sherlock anyway. I don't think I need to tell you."

"John, I worry about him  _constantly_. I want to hear it from you."

"Look, it's really silly. I can't even make sense of it myself. When I speak to Sherlock, he'll tell you."

"Fine," Mycroft said, quietly. "But whatever it was, it affected him very strongly. He has been moping since yesterday and has been increasingly impossible to handle. He is becoming unreasonably fixated on you, my brother. I don't know what I would do if this..." he waved his hand about vaguely, " _Friendship_  of yours were to end."

John frowned, and a sick feeling settle in the hollow of his stomach. He was close to puking out the pancakes. "W-what do you mean... _moping_? Is he okay?"

Mycroft's pale grey eyes looked at him from the mirror, the eyes that were so like Sherlock's in their inability to miss anything. There was a slight twinge of pity in them. "Understand, John, that Sherlock is not used to these bouts of  _emotion_. Which is why he is more prone to...getting hurt."

"Hurt? He's hurt? I hurt him? What are you talking about?" John flinched at the rising panic in his voice.

"While your concern is admirable, it is misplaced. You see, John, Sherlock may have this petty hatred for me, but believe it or not, I  _do_ care about my brother. And through the years I have removed any negative influences in his life. I do not want you to be...what must be removed."

"Removed?  _Removed_? Nobody is  _removing_ me. Sherlock can make his own decisions," John snapped. "You can't decide his friends for him. And I don't know what delusional world you're living in Mycroft, but I would  _never_ hurt Sherlock. He's as important to me as he is to you, but your brother is a headstrong, arrogant  _arse_ so of course we'll have disagreements. But I've known him long enough and I know how to handle him. I want him to be happy, he makes me happy, and sometimes I do the same for him. I know you do this from love, but our friendship isn't an  _experiment."_

"John—"

They had already reached Sherlock's house, so John got out, not wanting to hear the rest of the line. He did however, lean into the driver's seat window and say, "I'm unreasonably fixated on him too, no worries. I don't plan on leaving him as long as he wants to be my friend. So."

Then he left, feeling a grim satisfaction at leaving him staring open mouthed like that.

***

He opened the gates, jogging up the familiar path of gravel, to knock loudly on the door.

The butler opened the door, smiling politely in recognition of John

"Cheers, Mr. Rogers. Is Sherlock home?" he stepped inside.

"Yes, sir, he's upstairs, I think he's asleep."

"Excellent."

He knocked on the door twice, to which the familiar rumble of Sherlock's voice answered from inside, "Go away."

 _Ah, Sherlock_ , he though endearingly. John opened the door.

Sherlock was curled up on the floor under a bed sheet, only the mop of thick dark curls visible from under the covers.

"Morning, Sherlock."

He immediately sprang up, with a loud exclamation of "John!" and leaped out of the corners.  
"Jesus, Sherlock!" John complained, turning away, horribly aware of the burning heat on his cheeks. "Put on some bloody clothes!"

"Clothes?" he repeated, completely unconcerned by the fact that he was just wearing a pair of red boxers.

John rolled his eyes, trying to banish the image of Sherlock half naked from his mind, the image of that lean, hard torso, and the prominent collarbone, the angular bones just under the waistline, and the thin line of hair that disappeared under his red boxers...

 _Snap out of it you fool. What is wrong with you_?

"It's winter, you twit, put on something warm," John told him again.

"John, you can  _look_  at me. I am not  _naked_."

 _Didn't seem very far from it, though,_ thought John, and forced himself to look at him again, all pale, angular features and lanky, elegant limbs.

"I don't recall taking off my clothes last night," he mused, rummaging in his closet. "Must have removed them at some point. " He pulled a grey t-shirt over his head, saying, "I like to sleep without restrictions." He pulled out a pair of black pyjamas and pulled them on as well.

"Oh, you do, do you?" John was alarmed with his shriller than usual voice.

"There. Is this decent enough for you?" Sherlock asked, sitting on the bed.

John seemed to notice his face for the first time now; his skin was paler than usual, and with his usual tone, it was almost white. His hair was dishevelled and messy, exactly what he had thought Sherlock would look like when he woke up (not he thought about that, obviously), his lips cracked and shadows under his eyes.

"You look ill," he said, and there it was again, that god forsaken  _guilt_ bubbling up inside him again.

"I am not ill," he rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"How long did you sleep last night?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You know I can manage on little sleep, John. I'm fine."

John nodded, deciding not to argue. He went and sat next to Sherlock, on the foot of the bed; so close that he could breathe in his familiar scent; he hadn't showered last night, probably, the cologne he had used last night still clung to him, and there was the slight smell of sweat and exhaustion, mingling with the comforting fragrance of sleep.

"John?"

"Hmm?" John shook himself out of his wayward thoughts again. He looked at Sherlock again, now, and noticed his multi-coloured, pale eyes, searching every inch of his voice, ceaselessly deducing, guessing, cataloguing. He never seemed to stop.

"I think we should talk about last night," He finally said, sounding uncertain, weary, which was a new for Sherlock, whose confidence constantly crossed the line into arrogance. "It's the thing to do, isn't it?"

"I suppose." John replied. Sherlock looked completely out of his depth, which tugged at John's heart a little. He always felt like that when Sherlock was confused, or uncertain, because his regular state of being was being sure of  _everything_. Sherlock  _not_ knowing was so rare, and so out of place, that John was always longing to end it and put him at ease again.

"John, I want to say, that..." he licked his lips, his fingers unconsciously moving to his wrist to fiddle with his cuffs, but they just brushed against the bare skin there. "I think I should, at least...you know..."

"Sherlock," John said evenly, touching his chin and forcing him to look into his eyes. The gesture didn't seem odd. His eyes looked back, looking grey in the wintry sunlight streaming from the window. "Don't. It's my fault. I'm sorry. Really."

"No, no, no," Sherlock rapidly shook his head, getting up. "No, you see, I planned this. I was to say, I'm sorry, and you would reply with 'it's okay' and we'd be friends again."

John gaped at him. "We never...we never stopped being  _friends_ , Sherlock. We would never... _never_ —that's not—how can you think that?"

Sherlock bit his lip nervously, carding a hand through his hair. "I'm...glad to hear that. Yesterday was...yesterday I acted rashly. I just...it's stupid. It won't happen again."

"No," John said determinedly, standing up, and coming close to Sherlock. Close enough to touch him. He placed a hand gently on his shoulder, and looked up at him, into those what-colour- _is-_ that eyes. He could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin material of his T-shirt, and he wondered if the rest of him was as flushed. He licked his lips. "No, no way. Sherlock. I shouldn't have forced you. You don't know anyone there...and I was dancing with Sarah, and I left you alone...and...god, it was a disaster, wasn't it?" He laughed a bit.

Sherlock's lips quirked up in a slight smile. John could have jumped for joy. Sherlock smiling was truly a sight to behold. "That's an adequate description of last night, yes."

John sat down on the bed. He breathed heavily. "Definitely not doing it again."

"No, never," he agreed. "Let's take our minds off it." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I have a plan."

"A plan?"

"Yes, a plan. I have decided that today we will do something that you would like to do."

John frowned at him. "Where is all this coming from?"

"John, you're so  _slow_ sometimes," he said impatiently. "Yesterday you told me that you always went along with me when I went to the...'sodding library'-" he air quoted the words- 'and for murders and the like. So, I—"

"Sherlock, I was angry. It doesn't matter—"

"John, don't interrupt, it's very impolite. So, since you always come along with me, today we will do something  _you_ find fun." He smiled then, wait, no, it was more of a grin- a wolfish grin with too much teeth that stretched his face unnaturally. He looked extremely pleased with himself.

John felt warm inside, all of a sudden, a warm, fuzzy feeling in the very pit of his stomach. Sherlock was actually doing something  _nice_ for him.

"You're being nice."

Sherlock looked offended. "Of course I'm being nice. You're my best friend."

John gaped at him. "I'm—what."

"My best friend," Sherlock said impatiently. "Do keep up, John."

"I'm your best friend?"

"Why are you asking me that when I've already answered you?"

John grinned. "You're my best friend too."

Sherlock smiled shyly. Bloody hell, his face looked so... _lovely_ when he smiled like that. "I'm glad to hear it. Now, what do you want to do today?"

John shrugged. "Sherlock, you do realise that I  _enjoy_  all that? Not as much as you do, obviously, I don't jump for joy when I hear the word 'murder' but I like it. I like doing it with you. I wouldn't be friends with  _you_ if I didn't."

"I know," Sherlock said, almost fondly. "That's why you're my best friend. But we'll do something  _normal_ today. What do you want to do?"

"We could sleep and watch crap telly." The thought of lazing around all day with Sherlock sounded absolutely  _delicious_ to John.

"Dear God, is this your idea of 'fun'? I thought people like you did things like...go to the pub. Or spend money to watch useless, plot-less movies."

"People like me? Oh, Sherlock, you're making me blush."

He stared at him for a few seconds. "Sarcasm?"

John nodded. "Sarcasm."

"I'm getting better at it, aren't I?"

"You're making marvelous progress," John said, dryly. "Alright. We'll go watch a plot-less movie. I'll wait outside. Put on some more clothes." He started to walk out.

" _More_ clothes? I think this is perfectly—"

But John had stopped listening a second ago, because he found something in the dust bin which he was not expecting to see.

A syringe.

John stopped, staring at it. It didn't make sense. He thought...Sherlock hadn't... _the marks—_ but... _why?_

"John, what are you—" he turned around then, his voice hitching as the words stopped, invariably following his line of vision.

"John, it's not—"

John turned to him, and the expression on his face must have been livid, because Sherlock shut up immediately, looking fearful.

John bent, and picked up the syringe, turning it around in his fingers. Then he turned to him completely, facing him. He walked right up to him— _god, he was so angry right now—_ and shoved the syringe right in front of his face.

"Explain," he said roughly.

"John,—" Sherlock's eyes widened in panic.

"I thought you didn't do them anymore!" John literally shrieked, the words tumbling out of his mouth. "I saw the marks on your arms for  _weeks_ and I never said a word, because they were fading, and then—and then  _this_ , Sherlock!" he waved the syringe for emphasis. "Why?"

Sherlock reached out and plucked it out of his hand, throwing it behind him. "I  _did_ stop."

John raised his eyebrows, "And it just manifested itself out of thin air, yeah?"

Sherlock turned away from him, his fingers tangling themselves roughly in his air. "John, it's—it's difficult. I used to do them... _all the time_ , but—but—I stopped, when  _you_ came."

John frowned. "What?"

He turned around then, his eyes frantic, speaking very quickly, like he was afraid John would vanish if he stopped talking. "John, I never had a reason to stop before you came. It was just— I  _had_ to, John, you don't understand—the madness inside my head, it's just crammed with these  _thoughts_ —each of them begging to be addressed and examined— ceaselessly swirling round and round, never  _stopping._ That's why I get so bored, because I look at everything, and I  _see_ everything- I can see that you used an electric blade this morning, I know that you had pancakes, and I'm aware that Mycroft dropped you off and you had an unpleasant conversation with him of some sort- I can deduce the whole world top to bottom, John, and then I haven't anything to  _do_ because nothing is interesting. It's so dull, and boring, and I can't, I just can't—"

He seemed to have run out of words to explain the situation, but his hands were still moving, trembling with the depth of the words.

He looked at John, his eyes big, and weary, and John wanted to be  _angry_ at him, he wanted to shout and scream and shake his shoulders and  _demand_ to know why Sherlock would destroy the most extraordinary gifts he had, but he just felt  _sad_. He looked at Sherlock, those pale, luminescent eyes searching his face desperately, the trembling of those lips... and the anger just rushed out of him.

He sighed. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock slid to the floor, leaning against the bed, drawing his knees to his chest. "I understand if you want to leave. I've been expecting this to happen."

John sat down in front of him. He longed to touch him, because it hurt him that Sherlock thought so less of him. He was  _really_ pissed right now, but Sherlock could have murdered a person and John would have helped him hide the body.

"I'm not going anywhere. Don't be dramatic." He seemed to visibly relax at those words. "What did you mean, you never had a reason to stop before I came?"

Sherlock looked shocked. "Isn't it obvious?"

"No, not obvious, sorry."

"John, you're... _you_. You keep me interested. When I'm with you, I'm never... _bored_. So I don't need it."

Oh, god. The things he said. If he had  _any_ idea...

"If I'm enough, why did you take them yesterday?"

Sherlock bit his lip. John felt his gaze drop, in spite of everything. Then he ripped it away. "Yesterday...was a lapse in judgement. It won't happen again. I promise. John...I promise." The words has almost a manic edge to them, and John longed to comfort him, but...but...

"Sherlock, you can't take them every time you're bored."

"Oh, John," Sherlock groaned, "Don't you  _see_? Your mind—it's so placid, straightforward, barely used—"

"Gee, thanks—"

"Mine is like an engine, racing out of control, a rocket tearing itself to pieces, trapped on the launch pad- I  _need_ them, John—" he paused. "Well, I used to. I won't. Not again. If you tell me to." He looked at him almost beseechingly, his eyes wide and his thick dark hair sticking up every which way from where his fingers had tangled in them.

"I'm not telling you. I'm ordering you. Sherlock, that was  _cocaine_. It messes you up. Badly. You're so talented, you're  _gifted_ , you're a bloody genius and you want to ruin it with...with  _drugs_?"

"They don't affect me the way they affect other people."  _Fuck this bloke, he had the audacity to act superior when he had probably been high as a kite just a few hours ago._

"You're  _human_ , Sherlock, of course it affects you. You're so smart, you're so..." John couldn't even find words to explain what he  _was_. "Brilliant, you bastard, you're brilliant. Do you know the cost? Do you know how much it will  _ruin_ you?"

"I—"

"No, you bloody well don't!" he shouted, angry again. "Sherlock, if you overdose on this— you'll—" his voice shook. "You'll  _die_. Have you ever thought about that?"

"I would never OD," he said almost stiffly, and John could have strangled him.

" _How do you know_?"

"John, I won't do it again. It's...it is a distraction.  _Was,_ " he added, at the expression on John's face. "A distraction that I don't need anymore, because I have you."

"Yes, you have me," the words were simple enough, but they were so heavy with meaning and concern that it was almost difficult to get them out of his mouth. " _Will_ you be able to stop? Does Mycroft know?"

Sherlock scowled at him. "Of course he knows. He wants to send me to  _rehab._  As if I would need  _rehab._ Of all the dull, boring, mundane—"

"Rehab would help," John said hesitantly.

"I'm not an addict! I can stop when I want to."

"Have you stopped before?"

Sherlock licked his lips. "I've never  _completely_ stopped, no...but...I'm sure I can."

John sighed. "If you ever feel like you need a fix, you'll call me, okay?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Okay."

"I am serious."

"I know."

"Good."

"Can we go for that movie now?"

Sherlock wore clothes after a great deal of badgering from John, but finally consented to jeans ( _how juvenile, John!)_ and the purple shirt that he seemed overly fond of. It was a good shirt, John thought. A very good shirt indeed. It might have had something to do with the fact that it was rather tight and stretched across Sherlock's chest rather...pleasantly, but John banished that thought form his mind as immediately as it came. He also forced a jumper over his reluctant head.

(" _Well, at least it's not as hideous as your jumpers."_

" _My jumpers are not hideous."_

" _Denial is a very potent coping mechanism.")_

It was  _freezing_ outside, how could he let him go out in a shirt and jeans?

And of course, Sherlock would not leave the house without his Belstaff. John didn't mind. John  _far_ from minded. It made him look even more Shakesperean and Byronesque, which was Sherlock's natural state of being. Also, it was long enough to grab on to if Sherlock suddenly decided to run after a serial killer. Being friends with Sherlock meant you had to consider all possibilities, the more dangerous, the more likely.

"Sherlock," he asked, when they were going down the stairs. "Are we  _really_ going to watch a movie?"

He stopped, midway on the stairs themselves. "Do you not want to? You must tell me. Today we're going to do what  _you_ want to do."

"No, no," John shook his head. "I've got absolutely no problem. A movie is the most normal thing you could think of," he began walking again, and Sherlock followed him, "And since I don't do a great many normal things, it's very welcome."

"But you said you  _liked_ doing the not-normal things," Sherlock complained.

"I do. If I didn't like normalcy, we wouldn't be best friends. But I like doing them with  _you_. I wouldn't stand this behaviour from anyone else."

"Well, I hope not," he huffed in reply.

They were about to leave when John remembered something and grabbed him by the scruff of his collar before he walked out. "Breakfast."

"But, John—"

"Nope," John said simply, and dragged him like that to the kitchen. "No, we're not leaving until you've eaten something." He saw the housekeeper there, wiping the kitchen counter.

"Your fixation with food is slightly unhealthy," Sherlock mumbled, tripping slightly because of all the dragging.

"No, your aversion to it is unhealthy. I am a  _healthy_ human being with a  _healthy_ attitude towards food.  _You're_ the one who's waging an eternal war because you're too petty to realise that your body needs nutrition."

"My body can function fine with—"

"Ms. Turner," John said loudly, to the housekeeper, who was watching their interaction raptly, and turned to John with a look of awe on her face. "Could you get him something to eat, please?"

"Ms. Turner, there is no need to get me anything. John and I were just leaving." Sherlock was literally vibrating with the impatience of getting out of the kitchen.

"The cake. The rum cake from the lady across the street. Give him that, he likes cake."

"I don't—"

John turned to him, with a raised eyebrow. "Are your really going to argue with me over one slice of cake? I don't care what you say, but I am going to shove it down your throat if I need to."

Sherlock consented to the cake.

Getting him to eat was one of the highest achievements of John's life. Watching him shovel down the cake with a thoroughly annoyed expression on his face calmed John a great deal. He continued to mutter under his breath as they as they reached the door, Sherlock pushing it open.

And despite all that had transpired in the last twenty four hours, John felt  _happy_. He wanted to drag Mycroft here and show him Sherlock's face and prove to him that he was also  _happy_. Yes, he looked disgruntled and annoyed (he  _always_ looked like that) but he was radiating this warm glow of contentment that John felt so happy about that he wanted to frame this moment and keep it in his pocket forever.

He could almost feel Sherlock rumbling inside his head,  _Sentiment, John._

He smiled.

And then the smile faded.

There was a girl leaning against the gate outside the house, a  _really_ pretty girl who waved at them as they walked towards her.

He could  _feel_  the scowl on Sherlock's face. " _What_  is she doing here?" he muttered, swallowing the rest of the cake. And then, when they were in front of her, he looked down at her and asked her the very same question, with perhaps a bit more venom than before.

She was slender, as tall as John; with long dark hair and an angular face, silvery-blue eyes and bright red lips. She was dressed in a tiny dress with stockings and boots, and she was smiling at Sherlock in a way that made John feel highly uncomfortable.

"It's been a while since I saw you last, love. You keep getting lovelier every time I do." Her eyes sparkled with mischief, as she brushed the crumbs that still stuck to lips.

_Love? LOVE? Why was she calling him 'love'? She wasn't...was she? Why was she touching him like that?_

"How long have you been waiting here?" John definitely did  _not_ imagine the subtle way Sherlock stiffened under her touch, and leaned away slightly, not much to arouse suspicion, but enough to send a message,  _don't touch me_. Did she not see it? Or did she just choose not to?

She didn't bother to reply, as she had finally noticed John and she smiled widely at him, her pearly white teeth even whiter against the deep crimson of her lips.

"Oh,  _you_ must be  _Jawwn,_ " she drawled. "Oh, have I been dying to meet you."

And then, just like that, she bent forward and kissed him on the side of his mouth.

"You were wrong, Sherlock," she laughed. "He's  _very_ handsome. If you hadn't staked your claim first, I would have tried him out myself."

John's heart was beating really quite fast before he was able to register the meaning of her words. He wanted to say something but he was interrupted again.

"Stop touching him and go away." Sherlock moved towards the gate. "John, come on. Leave her. She's annoying."

"Wait," John was growing tired of this. He held up a finger as if to say  _time out_. Then he pointed at the girl. "Who are you?" and then he moved his finger towards Sherlock. "And how do you know each other?"

Irene smirked. "He hasn't told you about me?"

"Evidently not. So I would like one of you to explain. Preferably not him, because he talks too fast and rarely makes sense."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, (which he had started to find unacceptably endearing, but he did not have time for this right now.) and Irene laughed.

"Dear God, I was right. You  _are_ in love with each other."

John frowned at her, trying to ignore the odd flutter his heart did at those words. "What?"

"As for who I am, that's easy," she smirked, and moved next to Sherlock, slipping an arm around his waist and pulling his resisting body closer. "I'm his girlfriend, Irene." and she reached up to kiss him on the base of his neck, because he was too tall for her to reach further.

And just like that John wanted to wrench Irene away from Sherlock and do to him that very same thing.

 _Oh fucking hell_ , he thought immediately.  _No fucking way_.

Sherlock pushed her away. "Don't listen to her, she's lying. She does it appallingly often, and she thinks she can fool you because you may be too distracted by the size of her breasts and that horrifying shade of red on her lips to realise."

John gaped at him, and he wanted to laugh. He thought he was being distracted by  _Irene,_ for Christ's sake, when he had been staring at the pale expanse of Sherlock's neck a few seconds ago.

"I was  _not—"_

Irene patted his shoulder. " _Such_ a gentleman," she drawled. "Sherlock should learn a few things from you. Or he may like that kind of thing. I'm no stranger to  _recreational scolding_ , as his tosser of a brother would say."

John just stared at her.  _Recreational scolding? Girlfriend? Mycroft?_ He was clearly the only one disoriented with the situation. Was this what his whole life with Sherlock would be? Constantly being outpaced by smarter people around him?

"I don't—"he started to say, but Irene turned away from him and addressed Sherlock.

"Where are the both of you off to? Date?"

Sherlock, looking increasingly bored with this conversation, gripped John's arm and pulled him outside onto to the road. Irene followed.

John just went along meekly.

"We are going to watch a move," Sherlock said primly.

"Oh, lovely!" Irene exclaimed, wriggling in between the both of them and linking her arms with them jovially. "Take me along with you."

"Now wait just a moment—" John had finally decided to use his voice, because no  _fucking way in hell_ was he going to allow this psychotic girl along with them, because this was supposed to be Sherlock's apology- they were going to watch a  _movie_ together, for God's sake, it was probably the first and last time that would happen, and he'd be damned if he willingly brought along a third wheel.

'No, you're boring. Go away." Sherlock detangled himself from her.

Irene pouted. "But I haven't anything to do. Please?" then she looked beseechingly a John, and her eyes reminded him of Sherlock's eyes, and he found himself saying yes.

"Okay."

Sherlock groaned in frustration, but he didn't argue.

***

He should have argued. He should have brought the fucking roof down like he always did. Sherlock would just choose  _any_  inappropriate time to have a temper tantrum, he was always throwing temper tantrums, but now, when John would have wanted nothing better than for Sherlock to shout and scream and say, "no, let's not bring this one along," Sherlock had remained stubbornly quiet.

This was not a time for  _sulking_.

"If you didn't want her to come, why didn't you  _say_ so?" John hissed at him while they were buying tickets.

Sherlock looked at him, appalled. "I thought  _you_ wanted her to come."

"I just  _met_ her, why would I want her along?"

"Because she's pretty?"

John gaped at him. "Exactly how shallow do you think I am?"

"You danced with Sarah yesterday, for no particular reason except that she's pretty. She has  _no_ redeeming qualities to speak of whatsoever—"

"That is  _not_ true."

"You know it's true. It was a deduction, and my deductions are always right."

"You are an  _arrogant prick_  and the only reason I'm not punching you is because we are in public."

"No, you're not punching me because you don't want to."

"I  _always_ want to punch you."

Sherlock was about to say something in reply, when Irene walked up to them, said, "Boys this is hardly the place to have a domestic," she plucked the tickets out of John's hand and said, "Come along, now."

John was almost glad of her intervention, because he  _actually_ might have punched him.

"I don't know how you can have such violent feelings towards me when I am going to  _watch a movie_ with you," Sherlock said hotly, as they made their way towards the cinema. "A  _movie_ , John. Have you  _ever_ seen me watching movies, hmm? They are the most tedious,  _dull_ waste of  _time_ ever invented by man- I will tell you the potential ending of the story five minutes into it, I promise- and I am choosing to occupy my time doing  _this."_

"This was your idea," he snapped, not meaning to sound so harsh but failing miserably. He knew  _exactly_ why he was feeling so annoyed.  _Why was Irene with them?_

Sherlock looked wearily at him, and wisely chose not to reply.

He sat in between Irene and John, a long-suffering look on his face as if he were being sentenced to an execution. John would have smacked him if he didn't find it so adorable. Why did he find  _everything_ that prat did adorable? Clearly there was something wrong with him.

He scarcely watched the movie at all, because he was distracted by the fact that it was so bloody  _dark_ in the hall, and he could hear Irene whispering in Sherlock's ear— _and what was she even telling him_? And it was becoming almost impossible to sit this close to Sherlock, he was probably going to combust right on spot, but he had no idea why he felt so  _fucking uncomfortable_.

Suddenly, Sherlock leaned in and whispered to John, his breath tickling his ear. "Are you alright?"

John turned sharply towards him. "Am I  _alright_?" he whispered furiously.

Sherlock looked appalled at his outburst. "Yes," he repeated slowly. "You seem...nervous."

"Why would I be nervous?"

"I could come up with five possibilities, taking into account your personality and the current situation, but if I tell you, you may shout at me so I'm asking you myself."

"Well if you're  _so_ very  _clever_ ," John muttered viciously, "Then why don't you just  _deduce_ and you'll have your bloody answer, Mr-I-could-come-up-with-five-possibilities?"

"John," Sherlock said rather helplessly, but John stubbornly refused to listen to him and turned his attention back to the screen.

Sherlock made a whiny noise of disappointment and did the same. Then John was hyper aware of the fact that Irene's head was resting on Sherlock's shoulder, and he didn't even want to sit there anymore. He could picture her perfectly without needing to turn to her, and he pictured Sherlock and Irene side by side in his head, and he just  _saw_ them, the two of them perfect and elegant and absolutely beautiful, and John felt stupid and out of place and just wondered  _why the hell_  Sherlock had picked  _him_ of all people to be his 'best friend' when he was so achingly brilliant and he could have had anyone he wanted.

The lights came back in the hall when the interval started, and Sherlock rubbed his eyes like he had been sleeping all this time, and John wondered if he had nestled closer to Irene, laid his head upon hers and closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her hair...

_Fuck no._

Irene smiled at him, then, a strange smile that seemed to mock him and say,  _I know exactly what you're thinking of John, and I don't plan on stopping._

Sherlock yawned widely, then, and said, "I'll be back," and walked out.

John immediately turned to Irene and asked her in a voice that he hardly recognized as his own. "Okay. What's your game?"

She raised both eyebrows. "My game? I don't have a game."

"You and Sherlock. What is it? Are you in love with him? Do you want to shag him? Does he want to shag you? What is it?"

She smirked. "What makes you think I would tell you?"

"if you knew Sherlock at all, then—"

"I know what he likes."

That made John stop dead and stare at her. "What?" he asked weakly, but he wasn't a moron, and the meaning behind her words was clear enough. But thinking of  _Sherlock_ and  _Irene_ in  _that_ way was...was...distressing, to say the least. He was just protective of Sherlock, that was all. Sherlock wouldn’t know what to do if Irene pounced on him like that. Would probably feel too overwhelmed to do anything.

Or would he? How did he know if Sherlock liked… _wanted…_ if Sherlock wanted things, at all. Had Sherlock ever been touched that way? By _anyone_? Girl…boy…? Evidence pointed to the contrary, but John wasn’t sure about _anything_ anymore. And he couldn’t even _ask._

Sherlock came back, then, and sat down, but then he seemed to sniff out the tension in the air like a bloodhound, and he looked at the both of them in turn before snapping, " _Now_ what is it?"

"Nothing," Irene said smoothly, as the lights went off again. "The movie is boring. I'm leaving. Ta ever so much." And then she was gone.

And just like that, all the tension seemed to leave John and he took a deep breath of  _relief_ , and turned to Sherlock and said, "She's right. The movie is boring, you're clearly not enjoying it, and neither am I. Let's go."

He felt Sherlock's gaze on him, poking and prodding like he was a corpse, the questions in his eyes coiling around him tightly and almost suffocating him.

"Okay," he said, and the both of them left the hall quietly, even though John could hear almost hear the wheels turning round and round in Sherlock's head, as he tried deduce the situation and come up with answers. He didn't speak until they were inside the cab.

"John," he said, evenly, turning to him, his voice low and rumbling and maybe a little nervous.

"Sherlock," John replied.

"You're angry."

"Yes." And John felt sick with himself, because he was blaming Sherlock, and he had no right to do that, this ridiculous situation was hardly his fault, so why couldn't he listen to that logical voice inside his head?

"Why?"

"Sherlock," he said, sitting up and looking right into his bewildered eyes. "What's up with you and Irene?"

He frowned. "What?"

"Are the both of you shagging each other?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed to slits. "Why are you asking me ridiculous questions?" his voice dripped with disgust.

John barely flinched at his tone. "Because the evidence is very suggestive."

" _What_ evidence? What do  _you_ know about evidence?"

"I spend a lot of time with you."

"Exactly," Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Which is why you should know not to ask me stupid questions."

"You're not saying yes or no."

"I don’t think it’s worthy of an intelligent response.” He turned to look outside the window as if he was signalling the end of the conversation.

"I think it’s a reasonable question. I don’t know anything about you, in that way. Have you ever dated anyone? Do you- do you like anyone?"

Sherlock turned back to look at him, his pale cheeks slightly tinged with pink. He looked tired. "It's not the question, john. It's  _you_. You're being impossible. Today was not supposed to end like this. Today was supposed to be a  _you_ day. I had planned on making you happy so that you would forgive me for yesterday. But you have ended up disgruntled and unhappy and I disapprove of this entirely. _And_ you’re asking me idiotic questions."

"You should have told Irene not to come." John felt sickened with himself again. Why was he saying things he didn't even  _mean_?

"You give her unnecessary credit, John. If you give her the power to ruin a perfect afternoon, she will. You were paying far too much attention to her ministrations than required and that ended up ruining your mood. So don't blame me."

Which actually made a lot of sense, thought John. "I'm not blaming you."

"Yes, you are," Sherlock said tiredly. "And it's annoying. I don't understand why you're jealous, you have no reason to—"

"I'm not  _jealous,_ " John said defensively.

Sherlock' lip quirked up in a half smile. "The evidence is very suggestive."

"You arrogant prat," John muttered, but he didn't feel quite so angry anymore.

"So we're back to calling names, which means you're in a better mood."

"Prick." John felt his own lips twitch. Sherlock was right, he was giving the girl too much importance. This afternoon was supposed to be  _theirs,_  and he had almost ruined it with some misplaced jealousy.

Had he said jealous? He didn't mean jealous. He meant...er...what did he mean, exactly?

"Yes, I know. Now let's go home and play cluedo."

" _No,_ " John muttered. "We are  _never_ playing that again..."

"So  _what_ do you want to do? Stop thinking about Irene, it's an absolute waste of time—"

"Do you like her?"

"I find her tolerable. I  _like_ you. You're my best friend; she was one of those pointless distractions I had in my life before you came along. And she’s not all terrible. She can be quite interesting when she wants to be. Not as interesting as you, though.”

His words made John's heart slow down and race all at once. It made him feel extremely warm inside, and also froze his hands and feet. "And how exactly did she  _distract_ you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, for  _fuck's sake_ , John. There is nothing sexual between us. I have not shagged her, she has not shagged me. We have not shagged each other. I haven’t ever dated another living soul, male or female. There. Happy?"

And it did, it made him very happy, but John hadn't expected for his synapses to start firing when he heard Sherlock say words like 'sexual' or 'shagged'; it elicited a very odd feeling, and maybe even a slight stirring in his pants, which quite frankly, alarmed John. It was just...the way he...  _said_ it...in that fucking  _voice_.

Sherlock stared at him. "John?" Damn those fucking eyes, they seemed to be searching every centimetre of his face. John could  _feel_ the heat on his cheeks, and fuck him if Sherlock didn't notice them too. The bloke noticed  _everything_.

The only thing that came out of his mouth was, "You've never sworn before." His voice sounded shaky and breathy to his ears.

"That's because I don't. Profanity is an excuse for people who don't have a basic grasp of the English language. But back to my question. Have I settled this ridiculous situation once and for all? Can you please start thinking rationally again?"

"Er. Okay." John was too distracted by the physical reaction his body seemed to be having when Sherlock said certain words to say anything else.

"Small mercies," Sherlock muttered under his breath, looking outside the window. John took the blessed three seconds to try and get a hold on himself when Sherlock turned around to face him again, a smirk playing on the corner of his lips. "Oh, and John," he leaned forward so John could see it even clearer.

"W-what?"

"You've got lipstick all over your mouth."

And then, Sherlock lifted his hand up, and his long, elegant fingers casually brushed the side of John's mouth to smudge off the lipstick.

 _Wait_ , John thought.  _When did this happen. Why...fuck._

His fingertips seemed to move agonizingly slowly, dragging down the corner of his lip as he carefully wiped it off.

And then fingers were gone, too soon for John's taste, and the burning sensation that they had left in their wake still buzzed and arched at the corner of John's mouth. He couldn't  _possibly_ have...did he  _just_...

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed approvingly, settling back into his seat with a satisfied sigh. "You accuse me of engaging in sexual activities with Irene when you're the one with her lipstick smudged on your mouth."

"I, ugh..." John's brain had temporarily shut down. He longed to brush his fingers over the burning skin, which felt so hot that he was almost certain it was on fire.

"No need to reply, John," the smirk stubbornly refused to leave his face.  _Arrogant bastard._ "We can go home now, drink tea, and watch god-awful tv. Sound good to you?"

John wondered if he was imaging the double meaning to his words.

Half of him hoped he wasn't.

Which, quite frankly, was even more alarming than the slight straining in his trousers.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANOTHER CHAPTER, YAY! the sexual tension builds! will they or won't they? (they will, it's there in the tags)

Sherlock was no fan of emotion. Sentiment was ridiculous and he detested it. Simple. And he had known for the majority of his life that he would never be in a position where he would feel  _so fucking much_ of sentiment that it would physically hurt. He had also believed, that he would never be so happy that he couldn't breathe.

Sherlock Holmes was very rarely wrong, and being mistaken about any other situation might have reduced him to a surly mess, but in this case, he was very,  _very_ glad that he was wrong.

Which was why he couldn't decide if he should berate Irene Adler about what she had done, or thank her profusely for it. Incidentally, right now, he was leaning against the fence at the back of his house, dressed in his pyjamas and his dressing gown, lighting a cigarette next to her.

"Okay," he said, puffing out the smoke. "Explain."

Irene rolled her eyes. "Oh come on, Holmes. You're supposed to be brilliant. Go on. Deduce."

Sherlock smirked. "John said the same thing to me today," then he frowned. "Although he said it with a negative connotation, I believe. I don't really know  _why_ , but when I suggested what I  _thought was true—_

"He became defensive," Irene finished, grinning. "What did he ask you?"

Sherlock shrugged, flicking ash off the cigarette tip. It glowed in the darkness. "He seems to have been under the notion that you and I are in some sort of sexual relationship." He rolled his eyes. "As if I would ever have sex with  _you."_

(or with anyone. Sherlock had never had sex and he tried not to think about it, in general)

"You wound me, Sherlock. I’d be the best you ever had. But what did you tell him?" she looked far too eager.  _Women_ , thought Sherlock, annoyed.

"What do you think I told him? That you and I were shagging wildly seven times a night? I told him I wouldn't touch you with a six foot pole."

She looked affronted. "You did?"

"Eh," he muttered. "In a manner of speaking."

Irene groaned. "You  _pisspot_ ," she said. "After everything I did to make him jealous—"

He turned to her sharply. "So you  _were_ trying to make him jealous," his eyes narrowed.

"Well, obviously. He clearly likes you, but he's almost as thick as you when it comes to romance. He just needed a push in the right direction."

Sherlock almost choked on his own cigarette. Of all the  _crazy_ ,  _ridiculous_ things—and why had his pulse quickened suddenly? "He's  _not—_ I'm not—what  _romance?!_ " he spluttered incoherently. Good God, he was never  _incoherent_. What was she talking about? And why did he feel so hot suddenly? It was the beginning of December, for Christ's sake...

Irene just smirked at him. "Boys," she said triumphantly, as if that provided all the answers. "Sherlock, you went and watched a  _movie_ with him today. You went to a sodding  _party_ for him, and you bloody well  _solve crimes_ together! Use your head and draw a conclusion based on the logic—isn't that what you do?"

"I come to  _likely_ conclusions," he snapped, although he couldn't help feeling the hot flush creep along his neck. "We're  _friends_ , for God's sake."

She raised her eyebrows. "You're blushing."

"I am  _not_ ," but the heat on his cheeks said otherwise.

"He likes you too. Come on, you know it. You've seen the signs."

"I—" then he stopped. The  _signs_...yes. Dilated pupils. Erratic pulse. He had them all. Those few moments in the cab today—he could almost  _feel_ John's flushed skin underneath his fingertips. A stupid move, but an enlightening one all the same. But...no. He shook his head. "John isn't...John isn't gay," he finished lamely.  _Brilliant deduction_ , he thought.

Irene rolled her eyes. "Ugh, you and your  _labels_. You just find someone you like, Sherlock, and it can be a girl or a boy or whatever you want. It's just that simple."

Why was she making this so  _difficult_ for him? "That's not..true," he swallowed thickly. "Even if, even if that had even a  _modicum_ of truth to it...why would John be attracted to  _me?_  Look at me, I'm an arsehole. Even I know that. John is...John is  _nice._ He likes pretty girls who say nice things and do nice things. Not high functioning sociopaths who think  _murders_ are more fun than parties and who literally spend the majority of their adolescence siphoning off cocaine like  water." He stubbed the cigarette rather violently under his foot and ripped another one out of his pocket.

"Oh, darling—"

"And why would  _I_ be attracted to him? John is my friend; I'm fond of him— that ends there. What you're talking about...it sounds dangerously close to a  _relationship_ and that is a degree of affection I am not capable of."  _Liar_ , his subconscious seemed to whisper to him.

"Sherlock," Irene snapped. "You don't know what you're saying. You think everyone else is stupid, but have you even seen  _yourself_? All this 'caring is not an advantage' bollocks- that's what your brother says, isn't it? Well you can go tell him to fuck himself, because—"

"Irene—"

"No, shut up. You," she poked him in the middle of his chest rather painfully and it took him so much by surprise that his cigarette fell out of his fingers. He opened his mouth to say something but Irene was already raving. "For the first time in  _years_ , you've got this boy who follows you around like a puppy, and you drool after him, and you care for him more than I've seen you care for anyone. So let me tell you something. You sort out your feelings because otherwise some pretty thing who 'says nice things and does nice things' is going to take him, and then you're going to be wondering where on earth you went wrong."

"But I—"

"Oh, sod off," she muttered, pushing him away. "I don't even know why I'm telling you this."

"I was wondering the same thing. Honestly, Irene, it serves no purpose," he licked his lips and his voice shook ever so slightly when he said the next words. "John and I are just friends, and I'm happy with that. I am not going to ruin the only friendship I am likely to ever have through this misconceived notion of  _romance_ you're so bent upon."

Irene stared at him. "Oh my god, how thick are you?"

"Not thick, practical," Sherlock corrected, shoving his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown. "I'm going upstairs. Go home."

He walked away then, leaving Irene staring after him with a mixture of fury and shock.

He didn't sleep that night.

 

**

 

John was wishing he had never gone to that sodding party  _at all_.

He seemed to lose all sense when he was with pretty girls, no matter how bitchy they were. And now he was going to the  _bloody_ Christmas Formal with Sarah and he didn't even  _want to_. Apparently she had asked him that evening and he had said yes and that was that. Jesus, sometimes he wished he was as rude as Sherlock and he could just say 'No, I can't go with you because I don't actually like you all that much,' but  _no._  He had to have this ridiculous sense of morality that prompted him to say something like, "Oh, really? Haha. That's fantastic. Sounds fabulous. _"_ He didn't even use the word 'fabulous', for God's sake.

"Janine wants to know if Sherlock's going with anyone," Sarah mentioned, while they were leaning against the wall outside school waiting for class to start.  _Where the hell was Sherlock? Of all the days he chose to be late...now he had to fend off romantic proposals for him. Janine. Please. Sherlock would get bored with her in thirty seconds._

Although he  _had_ danced with her that night.

"John?" Sarah prompted.

"Huh? What?" John shook himself out of the irrational flare of envy.  _This had to stop_.

"Janine. Do you think Sherlock would go with her? Oh, and there's that other girl, Kitty, I think- and Louise-"

John burst out laughing. "Sherlock? Go to the  _Christmas Formals_? You're not serious are you?"  _How many of them wanted to go with him?!_

Sarah raised her eyebrows. "Trust me, I  _told_ her it was a lost cause. She seemed bent upon it. I would have told her he fancies blokes, but I haven't seen him with  _anyone_. I mean, half the school thinks he fancies  _you_ , or the other way around, but I've—"

John started to sweat. He laughed, a nervous, hysterical laugh that sounded slightly manic to his own ears. "He doesn't fancy  _me,"_ he spluttered. "We're...he's—it's completely platonic, I assure you." But there was snide voice at the back of his head which seemed to whisper into his ear  _is it_?

Sarah's eyes widened slightly at his over reactive response. "I know that," she said, rather suspiciously. "I told them that you're perfectly straight. Aren't you?"

"I'm straight," John clarified quickly. "Perfectly straight. Very straight. Straighter than a pole,"  _What the fuck was wrong with him?_ He would have probably gone on to list all the ways in which he was 'perfectly straight, very straight, straighter than a pole," had he not been saved by the appearance of a slender, dark haired figure he knew only too well.

Sherlock seemed to have been in the process of entering the classroom without him, (he only hoped he had just blatantly ignored him because he disliked Sarah) but John grabbed his arm before he could go in. Sherlock looked down at him, at the fingers around his bicep, and then at Sarah, his gaze calculating as usual.

"Hello, John," he said slowly, his gaze softening when he looked at him. John unclasped his grip and grinned at him. Sarah had visibly stiffened beside him.

"I'll see you later, John," she said coolly. "You could help me pick out my dress for the dance," she seemed to have added that last bit to Sherlock rather than John, and then she sauntered off.

Sherlock watched her as she went, his eyes narrowed and his lips a hard line. "Charming," he muttered, walking in with John.

John rolled his eyes. "I know, I know. She's no picnic," they took a seat in the middle of the classroom, (it was a compromise; Sherlock wouldn't come for class unless they could sit at the back, and John refused to accompany him to the woods for lunch unless he could sit in the front) "But I seem to have agreed to go with her to some shite Christmas dance that's happening at school." He ruffled his hair frustratedly.

"Ah yes, the Christmas Formal," Sherlock nodded, his tone somehow dropping about a dozen degrees. Or maybe he was just imaging it. Obviously imagining it. "I see." He adopted his usual pose of fingers-beneath-chin, the I'm-only-pretending-to-listen-but-I've-got-more-interesting-things-in-mind-at-the-moment expression on his face. Although John couldn't recall when Sherlock had used that expression on  _him_. Surely not because of a silly Christmas dance?

"It's a ridiculous thing anyway," John suddenly found himself explaining. "I'll just come for an hour, move around a bit with her, drink the punch and then go. "

"John," Sherlock drawled, elongating his name like only he did, "It’s fine.” He ruffled his hair with both his hands the way he did when he was frustrated or pissed off—making it even more tangled and messy. (it only seemed to improve his looks, though), "Sarah's a...nice girl. You should go with her."

John looked sceptically at him. "You don't  _like_ Sarah."

Sherlock's gaze wandered over the people slowly trickling into class, taking seats and scraping back chairs. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up his pale neck as he did so. He cleared his throat and answered after a pause, "I like very few people. But you like Sarah, do you not?"

"I don't...I don't like  _like_ her," John said, sounding and feeling stupid. What was he, five? But Sherlock was acting so...strange.  _Oh my god_ , he suddenly thought.  _Is this about the cab ride? Shit, I_ knew  _I was acting like an idiot._

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Grammatically and figuratively incorrect," he said contemptuously. "Either you like a person or you don't. You do, it's perfectly fine for you to admit it." He wasn't even  _looking_ at him, god damn it. And there were  _other_ things John should have been admitting, but he pushed all that to the back of his mind.

"Sherlock," John said, unable to say anything else.

He looked at him, then, his gaze intense, and John couldn't have named the colour of his eyes if someone had held a knife to his throat. "What?" he asked.

_I'm having all this ridiculous and weird feelings that I've never felt before and I can't make sense of it and my thoughts are a mess and I wish I could tell you about it but I don't want you to get freaked out or anything, but I really wish you would deduce it and I’d be saved from this hell_

"Nothing," he muttered.

Sherlock held his gaze for a few more seconds, and John had the uncanny feeling that Sherlock knew  _exactly_ what was going on in his mind, but then he turned away with a quiet, "Okay," and the feeling was over. He felt slightly disappointed, but then, he supposed it was for the best.

Anderson and Sally came and sat across from them, Sally greeting with a snide, "Hey, freak." Some of the other kids snickered to themselves, but Sherlock just rolled his eyes and said, "Go away, Sally," in a rather tired tone, and it worried John. Jesus, there were so many things he wanted to  _say_ , and no way of saying them.

Unfortunately, he had to put those unsettling thought to the back of his mind because Mr. Preston had just entered class, flourishing a sheaf of papers with a manic grin on his face. "Surprise test!" he declared jovially, to a chorus of groans. He passed out the papers, and John had to concentrate because he certainly wasn't a genius like Sherlock.

"I don't know how to do this," he whispered furiously to himself whilst he was scribbling god-knows-what on the answer sheet.

"It's just a stupid test," Sherlock said disdainfully. His own paper was a mess of scrawls and figures, but he evidently knew what he was doing. "Just do what you can and I'll explain it to you later."

"You will?" John felt a sense of relief. He didn't even know how worried he had been about Sherlock's perceptible change of manner until he had made that offer of help.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock answered smoothly, frowning at him, his pale eyes curious under his fringe of dark hair. "Why wouldn't I?"

John stared at him for a few moments, wondering why on earth something so simple meant so much to him suddenly. "Thanks," he whispered back.

Sherlock shrugged. "Of course."

 

***

 

 

"You attended every class this morning," John said, as they were ambling towards the woods.

Sherlock's lip twitched. "Janine seems to have made it her mission to pursue me wherever I go. If I stayed outside class, she would have undoubtedly found me."

John raised his eyebrows. "Oh, so it has nothing to do with me. You know, not because  _I'm the one who forces you to take classes_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Narcissism," he rumbled. "So attractive."

John could finally feel himself relaxing. That strange sense of worry had been gnawing at him since he had seen Sherlock this morning, well, in fact ever since that weird moment in the cab—gradually faded as he and Sherlock lapsed into their usual banter. It was fine. It was all fine.

At least he hoped it was. Because he  _really_ didn't want to botch this friendship up with some misplaced apprehension.

Sherlock leaned his head against the tree that he was so fond of, biting gingerly into the cheese-and-ham sandwich that John had forced upon him like he was eating dirt. Sherlock didn't have an absence of an appetite, exactly; he simply  _forgot_ to eat sometimes. If it wasn't for John, Sherlock would have never had lunch at school. He knew Mycroft forced him to eat when he was at home, but usually he was working so Sherlock would have nothing but tea and toast throughout the whole day.

"I don't like ham," he said sullenly.

"You don't like  _anything_ ," John countered.

"I like mince pies."

"You can’t have mince pies all the time, Sherlock.”

"You're so  _boring,"_  he muttered, stuffing the last of the sandwich into his mouth and dusting his hands on his (rather form fitting) school jumper.

"Oh  _god forbid_ I try to force nutrition on you," John scooted a bit closer to Sherlock involuntarily. He didn't notice he had done it until their shoulders were almost touching. It should have made him uncomfortable, judging from the unsettling direction his thoughts had been progressing in since yesterday, but it didn't, and he didn't want to move. The warm presence of Sherlock by his side was comforting.

"Sherlock," John said suddenly.

"Hmm?" he asked. His head was leaning against the tree, and his eyes were closed, the long lashes fanning against his cheekbones.

"Are you okay?"

That was when his head snapped up, and he looked at John, his pale gaze confused. "Am I okay? Why are you asking?" He frowned.

John sighed. Maybe it was a bad idea to have asked him. He shrugged. "It's just—I don't know. Just thought you were acting sort of odd like this morning."

Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow. " _I_ was acting odd?"

John pursed his lips, wondering if he should start this conversation now. He ploughed on. "I don't know. I don't think I should tell you...but it's been sort of bothering me."

"John," Sherlock said in a low voice, his eyes searching every corner of his face, as if convinced he would find an answer there. "What is it?"

"I don't know," John said again helplessly. "You've been all distant this morning."

'Distant?" Sherlock echoed, surprised. "Am I being distant now?"

"No," John answered, honestly.

"Then why are you worried?"

"I'm not  _worried."_

Sherlock looked bewildered. "Well, not  _worried,"_ John defended. "It's just...never mind."

Sherlock looked at him for a few seconds, his gaze searching his face. Then he looked away, sighing, running a frustrated hand through his shaggy curls. "Alright," he said, shifting slightly uncomfortably and licking his lips. "I thought I should ask you something. I don't really know the protocol for these kind of things, but—" he waved a hand about vaguely. "Irene showed me some perspective, something I never really considered before..."

John felt a funny feeling settle in the pit of his stomach. "Sherlock—" he started to say, but then they were suddenly interrupted by a female voice calling his name.

Sarah Sawyer tumbled into the woods, looking flushed and very pleased with herself. She grinned widely when set her eyes on John. "Oh, here you are. I've been looking all over for you."

John had to blink a few times before he was able to register that she was actually there. "Oh, really?" he asked stupidly.

Sherlock's eyes had narrowed to slits as he took in the sight before him, then he seemed to retreat back into himself, drawing his knees up to his chest and looking everywhere but at John and Sarah. John had learned to recognize his body language easily; it was what he did whenever he wanted to distance or remove himself from a certain social situation. John felt entirely helpless and he didn't know what to  _do._ Sherlock had been about to say something important, something that had taken him a lot of effort to- and now he  _knew_ he wouldn't say it again. He looked at the hardness in his eyes, and the clenched jaw- and he felt absolutely sick.

"John?" Sarah asked.

John ripped his gaze from Sherlock's expressionless face and looked at Sarah. "Yeah?"

She bit her lips, a blush creeping up her cheeks. "Could I borrow you for a moment?"

"Oh, ugh," he looked at Sherlock to see if it was okay, but he was stubbornly refusing to look at him. He turned back to Sarah, getting up and dusting his trousers. "Yeah, sure. Sherlock, see you in a bit?" he asked the last part rather uncertainly.

Sherlock gave a barely perceptible nod which he realised was all he was likely to get, so he romped on after Sarah. She had taken his arm, but he wasn't overly excited about the physical contact. His shoulder still felt slightly warm where it had brushed against Sherlock's.

 

***

 

 

Sherlock wasn't really into self-harm, but he could have just _hit_ himself right now. How idiotic  _was_ he? His genius was a farce. If it hadn't been for Sarah, Sherlock could have ruined the only friendship he had in a few minutes.

Oh, fuck,  _Sarah._  He groaned frustratedly, flopping against the grass. He didn't know if he was capable of disliking someone so much. Previously, Mycroft had occupied that honourable position, but Sarah was  _far_ more intolerable that his cake-eating brother.

God, these...these  _feelings_ were going to drive him mad. He needed to talk to someone, ask if this was  _normal._  But then again, he thought rather bitterly, when had anyone considered him 'normal'?

 _John does._   _John doesn't think you're a freak_.

Which was one of the things, on the ever-growing list in that sun-washed room of Sherlock's mind palace, that made him so remarkable, and too valuable to lose. Sherlock would just need to get a grip on himself. This was a temporary thing. And the feelings wouldn't have surfaced if Irene hadn't stirred them up.

 _Wouldn't they_?

Sherlock couldn't stay here anymore. He was going to drive himself crazy thinking things he wouldn't ever have thought of if John Watson hadn't been shoved into his perfectly well organised life.

Because that's what it had been, hadn't it, he thought, as he walked towards school. Organised. Planned. But boring. Now no day was the same as the last. Even exceedingly normal, every-day things like  _eating_ or _watching telly_ were amazing and wonderful if he did them with John.

He wondered where the hell Sarah had dragged John off to. Probably to snog him senseless somewhere, he thought snidely.

_What's up with all the jealousy? It not like YOU want to snog John._

Sherlock agreed. Definitely not. That was ridiculous. Sherlock had never snogged anyone, and he wasn’t going to start with John. He didn’t know _how_ to, for one thing. He didn’t even know how one was supposed to do it. Well, hypothetically, if he snogged John, John could teach him, because John had shagged a great many people and was probably very good at this kind of thing, considering his vast experience. John would be patient, wouldn’t mind that Sherlock was a little out of depth about things like that, he would-

What the _fuck._ Sherlock swallowed thickly, feeling very warm. He always had an overactive imagination, he was definitely _not_ thinking about snogging John.

***

John really wasn't in the mood to snog Sarah.

She seemed to have other plans. The fact that she had called him away from Sherlock for a  _sodding snog_ in a  _supply closet_ annoyed him to no end. Still, she had him pressed up against the door and her tongue was halfway down his throat, so he wasn't in a position to let her know his objections. But when her hands reached for the buttons in his trousers, he instinctively grabbed her wrist.

She raised an eyebrow. "You don't want to?"

"Erm, no," he answered, letting go of her hand, and fixing his tie. "Not in a supply closet, at least." He didn't want to 'do it' anywhere, in fact, but he didn't want to sound rude. He pushed her gently back. "Maybe later?" he checked his watch. "We have class in five minutes."

Both her eyebrows went up. "I thought we'd miss class," she snapped. "I mean—aren't you—um-you know..."

"Aren't I?"

"You know. Don’t you want to get off?" She bit her lip. John remembered when he used to find that alluring. Now he just wanted to get out of this suffocating closet and the scent of Sarah's perfume.

"Uh," he didn't exactly know how to respond to that. Unfortunately, his cock had been rather unresponsive the whole time she had her body pressed up against his, but that was probably because he was thinking about Sherlock. Not in  _that_ way, obviously, he hadn't been wondering what Sherlock's lips would feel like against his own...no. No way. Just worried about him. "I...do," he finished lamely, knowing very well how unconvincing that sounded. "But..er...I don't want to get off next to tubes of detergent." He laughed nervously, but Sarah didn't look amused.

"Fine," she muttered. "Let's go," she opened the door and even though she had seemingly implied that they would go together, she left without another word.

He knew that the decent thing to do was to go after her and apologise or whatever this social situation demanded (god, now he was even starting to  _think_ like him) but he needed to find Sherlock.

It was difficult to find him, he wasn't in any of his usual spots, but when he was walking back through the rather dark corridor that run from the back end of the building, the familiar mop of dark hair caught his eye.

"Sherlock!" he called.

He jogged up to him, and Sherlock looked down at him with his usual deadpan expression. "Hi," John said, rather breathlessly.

Sherlock's eyes flicked over his entire body, and John was suddenly mortified, because this was Sherlock Sodding Holmes and he probably knew that Sarah had been trying to snog him senseless in a supply closet five minutes ago.

As expected, a dark eyebrow went up, and a smirk played on the corner of his mouth. "John," he rumbled. Then the bastard dropped his bag, leaned against the wall behind him and crossed his arms over his chest. "How was the snogging?"

"I ...wasn't snogging," John stammered, which was probably the lamest lie he had said in all of history. Sherlock cocked his head to one side, the smirk growing wider.

"You know me, John. This won't work."

John sighed, glaring at him. "Go on. Dazzle me. How did you know?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Let's not insult my intelligence by asking me to state the obvious."

John raised his eyebrows. "It sounds like you're telling me you don't know."

"Oh  _please_ ," Sherlock scoffed. "Look at yourself, John. Your collars are all ruffled up at the edges, as if someone's grabbed you to get closer," then, because John was already standing close to him, Sherlock simply leaned forward and casually fixed John's collar like it was of no consequence.  _Fuck_.

"There's the loosened tie you obviously tried to redo hurriedly but didn't manage that quite so well..." Sherlock was standing now, right in front of him, his hands on his tie as he tightened it, pulling up the knot. His eyes were on the base of his neck as he said, "Then there's the two top buttons of your shirt. Open," he fastened the buttons, the cold touch of his fingertips on his breastbone sending shivers down his spine. John seemed unable to move or to say anything. "Then, obviously, one would only have to look at your lips to clinch the deduction." His gaze fell to his mouth, his lips parting slightly. He was so close now that John could literally feel the heat radiating from his skin. His mouth was just a few inches away from his own, Sherlock would just have to lean forward slightly to close the gap, and John could hear the blood rushing in his ears at the thought.

"My lips?" John asked, weakly

Tearing his gaze away, he looked right into John's eyes then, smirking. "Swollen, John."

John stared at him.

Sherlock moved away from him in one fluid movement, picking up his bag, singing it over his shoulder. "I am, aren't I?" he started walking away. "Come along, John. I believe we have some tedious class to attend."

John gaped at him, sauntering away like the last minute hadn't even happened. That arrogant _clot._ He was always doing things like this, pretending like he had _no_ idea how it was affecting John. Or did he? If he did then John wasn’t sure what that meant.

Touching him and- fixing his collar- and making deductions about his _mouth,_ smirking all the while. John wonders how he’d feel, if he just grabbed him by the lapels of his shirt and pushed him against the wall, watch as those silvery-blue eyes went wide as saucers, see how he’d like it _then-_ he can just see it, that plush mouth parting, and John would get that smirk off his face so easily, Sherlock looked delicate but he could take a bit of rough handling, maybe he’d pull his hair a bit-

_Jesus, what?_

John took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to blink that horrifying, confusing image out of his eyes. He wasn’t- he _wasn’t._ It was just his imagination. He was tired. Hadn’t slept properly. And Sherlock _did_ have a knack of making him feel…odd.

Still trying to get his rapidly beating heart under control, he followed Sherlock down the hall.

***

_We're friends, we're just friends, Sherlock and are just friends. This is stupid and ridiculous and it will never happen again._

Chemistry Practical was an exercise in self-control as John sat next to Sherlock in the third bench, having already broken his third test tube. John wanted to finish the conversation they were having in the woods, but it just seemed out of place to ask about it now. Getting Sherlock to talk about his _feelings_ was not easy.

Speaking of, he raised an eyebrow at him, his dropper in his slender fingers. "Are you alright?"

"What?" John wiped his hands on a towel, brushing the broken pieces into the rubbish bin. "I'm fine."

"Something to do with Sarah?" Sherlock asked, in that vaguely bored tone of his.

"Maybe," he muttered. "Really don't want to go for that dance."

Sherlock bit back a laugh. "Then don't  _go._  It's going to be dreadful. You'll hate it."

"I know," he replied wearily. "But I promised Sarah."

Sherlock's snorted inelegantly. "Yes, there's always that."

"I don't even know  _how_ to dance," John suddenly burst, exasperated.

Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds, his multi-coloured eyes wide, his bottom lip pinned by his teeth. He looked hesitant.

John raised an eyebrow at him. "What?"

Sherlock licked his lips nervously. He put down his beaker. "I could help you."

"What?"

"I could teach you to dance. Just basic stuff, it's not that—"

" _You_ will teach me how to  _dance?_ You know how to  _dance?"_ John couldn't believe his ears.

Sherlock looked affronted and really quite adorable, with the undeniable embarrassed blush creeping along his pale skin. "Yes," he scoffed. "I am a  _fantastic_ dancer, I will have you know. My parents made me take lessons when I was a child." He sniffed.

John leaned forward, grinning. "You'll teach me how to dance?"

"Isn't that what I just said?" Sherlock frowned at him.

"Okay. You're going to teach me how to dance." He had to bite back a laugh.

"You're making fun of me," Sherlock complained.

"No, no," John reassured him, although the idea of teasing Sherlock about it was tempting. But he hated making him feel uncomfortable, and if he liked to dance, there was nothing wrong with it. Quite frankly, John found it...well he found it rather sexy. "This is great. I want you to."

Sherlock smiled shyly. "Good."

It was probably a terrible idea, considering how his thoughts didn’t seem to obeying any law of reason, but John really did want it.

***

John watched Sherlock lazily from the slouchy beanbag in front of the bookshelf as he pulled his school jumper over his head, flinging it unceremoniously into the corner of his room. It made his hair stand up every which way, and Sherlock even tied to fix it by running his hands through it rather aimlessly. John tried not to stare too much, at the boyish flex of his muscles  under his school shirt, at the long fingers dragging themselves through the tousled curls- but it was proving rather difficult.

_What was he doing here, anyway? He couldn't stand straight after Sherlock fixed his tie and now he was agreeing to him teaching him how to dance? How ridiculous was that?_

"So?" John asked, rather uncertainly, loosening his tie.

Sherlock ignored him as he rummaged in his desk drawer, brow furrowed in concentration before he pulled out an i-pod that looked like it had been stuck there for ages. Sherlock had to brush some dust off of it.

"Does that even work?" John asked.

Sherlock cast a withering look in his direction. "Of course it works," he muttered, setting up the speakers. "I wouldn't have offered you dance lessons if I was incapable of providing music."

"So that's what these are? Dance lessons?" John smiled at the thought.

"Aren't they?" Sherlock asked vaguely, scrolling through the music.

"I guess."

He finally tapped his finger on the screen, and a violin piece began to fill the room.

"Get up," he ordered.

John didn't even think twice about doing that, and walked up to Sherlock, who looked very pleased with himself.

"Okay," he said, looking at John with a calculating look in his eye. "We'll start with a waltz. We'll see how it goes from there."

"A waltz?" John repeated.

"You heard me," Sherlock grinned. Then he moved closer to John, and grasped his hand. His skin was slightly warm, and John's head spun at the sudden contact. He swallowed thickly. When Sherlock placed his hand on John's hip, it took all of his willpower not to crumple to a heap on the floor.  _Get a grip on yourself, Watson_.

Sherlock leaned down towards him, speaking into his ear, "Put your hand on my shoulder." His voice seemed to have dropped an octave.

John obeyed, reaching up and putting a hand on Sherlock's bony shoulder. He was a bit too tall, though, and it was a bit of a stretch. Sherlock noticed, and grinned devilishly.

"We seem to have a problem," he said, smirking. "Should we switch?" His warm breath tickled his ear.

John didn't quite know how to answer that. Any position was fine with him, as long as Sherlock's hands were on him somewhere. Well _._ That didn’t sound very platonic.

"Seems okay," he answered in a small voice.

"Very well," he said, interlacing his long fingers with John's. His touch on john's hip bone was sending waves of heat right through his body, and it seemed like a good idea to take off his jumper, but John didn't want to move at the moment.

"I’ll lead first, so pay attention," Sherlock said, his voice low. John looked up at him, and his pale-gaze seemed to bore right through him. Was he imagining those dilated pupils?  _Obviously_. “Then we can teach you to do it the other way, since you’ll be leading with Sarah.”

Sherlock gripped John tightly, encircling his arm around his waist and pulling him slightly closer. John's hands felt clammy as Sherlock spun them around smoothly, and he felt all the breath rush out of his body in one great  _whoosh_.

"What's playing?" he asked, in a shaky voice, as Sherlock continued to fox-trot them around the room.  _Anything. Distract yourself._

"Tchaikovsky," Sherlock literally purred in his ear. "I'm rather partial to Tchaikovsky."

John laughed nervously, and then stepped on Sherlock's foot inelegantly. He flushed. "Shit, sorry," he muttered.

"It's alright," Sherlock pulled away slightly. "Just follow me, Like this- 1,2,3,...1,2,3..." John concentrated on his feet, because it was far more easier than concentrating on Sherlock's breath in his ear and his hands on his body and the fact that  _they were dancing the waltz, for fuck's sake._

It was easy, simple. It would have been easier if Sherlock didn't smell so good. “So. Er. Tell me about…the waltz.”

John just wanted something to distract him from Sherlock’s hands, and the way his entire body was heating up, and the way he just wanted to grab Sherlock and do very confusing things to him, (push him up against somewhere, catch his wrists and do…something. John wasn’t sure what he’d do after that)  but asking him to _talk_ was an enormous mistake.

“Well,” he began, and oh _god,_ what was he thinking? Sherlock’s voice dripped with heat, all the time, even when Sherlock didn’t know it. "The Waltz emerged in the 16th century, originating in Austria and Southern Germany.” John felt goosebumps erupt on every inch of his skin. "When people started doing it in England sometime around 1816, the very fact that the man's arm was around the lady's waist—" he drummed his fingers on the small of John's back for emphasis, "made it rather scandalous. It wasn't a traditional couple's dance."

"How do you know all that?" John asked, gripping Sherlock's shoulder blade rather tightly because he felt like he would fall if his grip slackened.

Sherlock chuckled. It was the most adorable and sexy thing he had ever heard. "I know things, John."

"Tell me more."

They completed one round, and Sherlock spun them around easily. "There were earlier forms of the Waltz," Sherlock complied. "From the 16th century itself. Montaigne was a French philosopher who wrote about a similar dance, one where the dancers were so close that their faces actually touched," Sherlock's lips were almost on his skin now, and John felt his lips lightly brush against his temple. A hot flush began to creep up along his neck.

"Shady," he joked weakly.

Sherlock smirked. "Quite an understatement." He bent forward again, switching their positions to a different rhythm. John barely registered the music, as beautiful as it was. All he was aware of was the warmth of Sherlock's hand on his waist, and his rumbling words in his ear, his voice all posh and velvety with its public school accent. " _Geschiche des Frauleins von Sternheim, Sophie Von La Roche_ ," he informed John.

"Book? French?" John swallowed. Sherlock speaking a foreign language, any foreign language, was doing things him. Everything that he said sounded absolutely  _filthy_.

"German," Sherlock rumbled. "' _But when he put his arm around her, pressed her to his breast, cavorted with her in the shameless, indecent whirling dance of the Germans, and engaged in a familiarity that broke all the bounds of good breeding—then my silent misery turned into burning rage_." John felt an uncomfortable tightening in his trousers.

_Shit. Shit. Get it under control. Think unsexy things. Unsexy thoughts. Don't think about his lips against your ear or his hand on your waist, don't—bloody hell, Sherlock._

"John?" Sherlock asked, his tone laced with slightly amused concern. "Are you okay?"

"I-ugh—" Was he okay? Fuck no. He was quite possibly getting an erection because he was dancing with his best friend and his cock certainly found that arousing and while that was all finehe couldn’t…he couldn’t just…John couldn’t give in to his wants, because that would be weird, wouldn’t it? And he didn’t even know what he wanted. He wasn’t gay, so why would he want to do those things to Sherlock that he was thinking about? He didn’t- he _couldn’t_ like Sherlock that way. They were _friends._ And John couldn’t let some weird hormonal thing ruin it.

Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow questioningly, a slightly mocking tilt to his lips.  _Of all the obnoxious arseholes in the universe-_ there it was, that momentary fantasy. Grabbing him, maybe twining his fingers into that luscious mop of hair, pulling his head to one side to bare his neck, and JESUS, not _now-_

"You?" he prompted. John registered that they had stopped moving.

"I, um—" he disentangled himself from Sherlock, who certainly didn't expect it, and stumbled slightly.

"John?" he asked, nervously, as John picked up his bag and ran a hand through his hair to tidy it.

John turned to him, sparing a glance as Sherlock's bemused and rather worried expression. "What is it?" he asked, stepping closer. John instinctively took a step back. Sherlock noticed it, and blushed a bit, stepping back.

"John, what—"

" I need to go," John said quickly.  _I need to get the fuck out of here_. Before he actually did any of those things.

"But—" Sherlock looked quite frightened now.

"Sherlock, don't worry. I'll see you tomorrow," he kept his eyes on his face, because he  _definitely_  didn't need Sherlock risking a glance anywhere below his waistline and coming to his own deductions.

He frowned at him, his greyish-blue eyes clouded with thoughts. "Okay," he finally said.

John rushed out of there without a backward glance.

 

***

 

 

Sherlock leaned his head against the chair in the classroom, sighing frustratedly, wondering why John was so late. John was never late. But then, he shouldn't be surprised.

Of all the stupid, ridiculous things Sherlock was capable of, this was probably the most stupid and ridiculous. Now he had made John uncomfortable, and John was probably doing stupid things like questioning his sexuality and wondering if Sherlock would try to touch him like that again. He wasn't  _trying_ to, he never had been- although the feeling of John's body against his own and his hands in his had been..,pleasant.

Sherlock had never felt sexually attracted to anyone, and he didn't know if he was now. He never really  _noticed_ people that way, but you couldn't  _ignore_ John's physicality. Because..because John was...John was  _gorgeous,_  there was no other way to put it, and for a boy who rarely found anyone attractive, this was definitely not something he was just imaging. But if it was John, then..that was it. Their friendship was over. Unless he was able to prevent himself from pawing at John like an animal. Or fantasising about John pawing at _him_ like an animal. John’s sexual inclinations weren’t difficult to deduce, he would probably enjoy that.

With a girl, obviously. Not with him.

God.

He needed to keep John. The very thought of not being with John filled him with a clawing, frightful panic. He would do  _anything_ to keep him, and if that meant keeping the undeniable physical attraction he had to him hidden, so be it. He would also need to resist the temptation to curl his fingers into his shirt and pull him against him, on top of him, maybe. Because he was  _definitely_ having those desires. It was surprising, and frightening, because these feelings were new and Sherlock did  _not_ know how to handle them, especially when the object of these desires was his best friend. Who was not gay. Also, it was an unbelievable thing that he was  _friends_ with Sherlock, so it was best to not push his luck.

He was shaken out of his thoughts when someone tumbled into the chair next to him. He lifted up his head, staring at the boy, ready to tell him off because that was  _John's_ chair and how dare he have the audacity to sit where  _John_ sat.

He was skinny, frailly built, with pale skin, almost as pale as his own. His dark hair was slicked back from his high forehead, and as he sat there, his pale fingers drummed lazily against the wooden surface of the desk. Sherlock frowned.

"Can I help you?" Sherlock asked.  _What I actually mean is get the fuck off John's chair he'll be here any moment_.

The boy turned to him then, his intense, brown gaze digging into Sherlock's. He smiled at Sherlock- a cold, polite smile that sent a shiver down his spine.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I asked—"

The boy grinned. "I know what you asked," he said, his voice low and deep. He took Sherlock's hand without invitation, and shook it. Goosebumps erupted on Sherlock's skin.

"Jim Moriarty," the boy said. "Hi."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [you can always talk to me on tumblr](https://subtext-is-my-division.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> [and here's my twitter](https://twitter.com/subtextismydiv)
> 
>  
> 
> i don't post fic updates, but you can always ask me about them on either of these sites.
> 
> also....welcome to the fic, Jim! yes, he's going to be creepy as hell.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh, god, Sherlock, no," John breathed, and before Sherlock had any time to react, he had thrown his arms around his torso and was crushing his ribs so hard he could barely breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big hugs to everyone following/commenting/kudos-ing or just lurking. You guys are awesome and deserve all the love.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, sorry to bring this up, guys. I'd like to reiterate that i ADORE your comments and your feedback (i live for each and every one, honestly!!) but please note the soft john tag! I do NOT enjoy reading comments where i'm being asked to make john rougher/more aggressive etc. (or sherlock to be more virginal/blushy/nervous) I really don't mean to complain, but it puts me off my writing a little! I know some of you may be disappointed with this version and i COMPLETELY get it, i enjoy fics like that too!! But this is not going to be that kind of fic, so may I point to the other incredible works in this fandom where you'll find a Watson that works for you. 
> 
> Again, I am so sorry if this has put you off my fic, or my writing, or me as a writer, but I hope you'll understand why this upsets me. I love writing all kinds of versions of our boys, but they change with every fic and I have to use whichever one fits best.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for reading and providing me feedback anyway. I appreciate all of you so much, and I hope to hear from you guys soon.

There was something about him.

Something about him that just seemed off, something that Sherlock couldn't deduce, and it was driving him crazy. Every instinct he had told him to move as far away as he possibly could from the boy, and yet he found himself sitting there, subject to his seemingly innocent brushes of skin on skin. Every time their eyes locked, Sherlock felt a sick feeling in the hollow of his stomach, and a shudder of something he couldn't quite place his finger on, run down his spine, and it was a nauseating combination. The pretty Irish lilt, the soft brown eyes, and the mocking tilt to his lips; something, something  _something_. But  _what_?

John hadn't come yet. The first class was almost over, and John was nowhere. It had started out as a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, but twenty five minutes into class it was almost a full blown panic because he  _needed_ John.

"You seem nervous," Jim quipped, reaching across the desk to take a pencil from his side. His arm brushed across Sherlock's.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Do I? What a brilliant deduction."

"Was it?"

"No." Sherlock twirled the pencil between his lips. He was only half listening to the teacher speak, it was some rubbish twaddle about 16th century poetry, and classes only seemed slightly stimulating when John was with him. But now he had to face forty minutes of this insanity with this...this...whoever he was.

Jim smiled lazily at him. "You don't like me very much, do you?"

"Disliking you would require time and effort on my part, don't flatter yourself. I really don't care about you."

Jim chuckled under his breath. "So the rumours are true," he stretched languidly back in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankles.

 _Tedious_. "Oh, please,  _do_ enlighten me on the  _vastly_ interesting things you've heard about me." Sherlock took a long suffering sigh, keeping his eyes trained on the blackboard. He didn't know why he felt so uncomfortable with this boy...it was just...he just made his skin  _crawl_ , for some insane reason.

"Oh, not much," he replied airily. "I've been informed you're the institution's resident psychopath."

Sherlock's lips tilted upwards in the mockery of a smile.  _Obvious. Predictable. Dull_.

"The medically approved term is  _high functioning sociopath_. Do your research."

"Mmm," Jim made an approving rumble at the back of his throat. "Research on you. How enticing. Do you think I'd find anything interesting? Deep, dark secrets, perhaps?"

"I'm sure you'd be the first to know."

" _Sociopath_. How very apt. But  _psychopath,_ on the other hand...it's more...exciting." He turned towards Sherlock, eyes meeting his own, and his gaze sent a fizzle of something unknown down his spine.

"How very interesting."

"You're very dismissive of me, Sherlock. Am I not holding your interest?"

"You’re just too easy to read _James_. I already know everything I need to."

"Which is?" he prompted. "I've heard of this...thing that you do."

"You've transferred here from a boarding school. Your parents are divorced, you live with your father. Father has a high pressure job, I'm assuming something in the government. He's usually not around. You were sent away from home for a reason; you wouldn't be coming back home to live with your father, for obvious reasons, so you're living with some other family member. You've been abroad recently, somewhere fancy, maybe Paris. Possibly with your mother. Possibly alone. Maybe it was an apology for keeping you locked up in boarding school. Clearly, flamboyantly, unambiguously queer. Don’t worry though, I won’t out you.”

Jim whistled.

"Please don't feel any need to tell me that was wonderful or amazing, John's expressed that thought in every variant available to the English language."

"John?"

And right on cue, someone cleared their throat from the door. Sherlock suddenly felt all the tension leave his body so completely that he almost slumped in his chair from the relief of it.

 _John_.

"Come in, Mr. Watson. Although I don't see the point in you attending class  _now._ " The class giggled.

John flushed, an attractive shade of pink, that made Sherlock wish that  _he_ could make him blush in that way. John nodded, stepping inside, immediately locking eyes with Sherlock, and he could literally feel the rest of the class melt away. His lips turned up in an automatic smile, genuinely  _happy_. John grinned back, until his eyes fell on Jim, and the smile melted, brow furrowing. He raised a questioning glance to Sherlock, who rolled his eyes in response.

Just then the bell rang, and their attentions were arrested for a moment, while Ms. Blunt packed up her things, and the students filed out. John made his way towards Sherlock then, the questioning look still on his face. Jim still lounged in his chair, watching the proceedings with almost gleeful interest. Sherlock stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder, as John stopped at the desk. Sherlock quickly flicked his eyes down John's body, taking in the tousled, wet hair and the loosened tie, the school jumper that was carelessly tied around his rugby toned hips. He glanced towards Sherlock once, and then looked at Jim, who smiled back up at him politely.

"Uh," John mumbled. "I...don't think we've met. Are you new here?"

Jim stood up, shoving his books into his bags. "I assume you're John," he replied smoothly.

Sherlock felt sick. He didn't like the way Jim looked at John, he didn't like that John was standing so close to someone who Sherlock's mind had already labelled 'dangerous'. He wanted to get him out of here, away from this boy.

John raised his eyebrows, flicking his eyes back from Sherlock to Jim. "Yeah," he said uncertainly. "Sherlock told you?"

"Ah, yes. I'm Jim. Jim Moriarty." He smirked at John. "Charmed." Then he winked at Sherlock. "See you around, m’dear." Then he slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked away.

John stared after him, his face contorted with mild disgust and confusion. Jealousy as well, perhaps. Sherlock didn’t want to get his hopes.

" _Dear_?" He repeated incredulously. "Who  _is_ he?"

Sherlock shrugged. "New student, I suppose." He swallowed thickly, looking down at John, suddenly feeling awkward, because the last time they had seen each other, John had literally fled from him. John seemed to realise that too, and he instinctively stepped back from Sherlock, as if to create some distance between them. That hurt a little, but still, it was better than running away. Besides, perhaps physical distance was a good thing. It would keep him from pouncing on John.

John looked away from him, biting his lip. Sherlock tried to not stare. "I don't like the look of him," John muttered, starting to walk out of class. Sherlock followed suit.

 

***

 

John did not need this.

It was difficult enough to not look at Sherlock, in all his messy haired, silver eyed, form-fitting jumper glory, and not recall the very confusing wank he'd had yesterday evening as soon as he came home to the privacy of his own room. To not remember his hands on his waist and his breath in his ear, and the fact that thinking about it would probably make him hard again. He needed to get it under control, because he could only imagine the look of horror on Sherlock's face if John were to announce to him that he would quite like to shag him into next week.

Christ, shagging him. What would that even be like? It was difficult to imagine, graceful, elegant Sherlock in the throes of passion. Head thrown back, hair dishevelled, blush high in cheeks, fingers twisting in bedsheets. Moaning. Calling his name. Long, coltish legs around his waist, that baritone rumble encouraging him to-

Oh, fuck. Would it ever end? John blinked so hard his eyes hurt.

 _Don't think about it. Unless you want to get hard in the middle of a physics lesson_. Sherlock, as usual, wasn't in class, which was honestly a relief, because Sherlock would be able to deduce his erection in seconds.

And now John was driving himself crazy wondering if Sherlock was with Jim. Because he hadn't imagined it, had he? That cackle of electricity between the both of them, the atmosphere around them that was so heavy and charged with  _something_  that John couldn't quite place- that hungry, manic gleam in his eyes when he looked at Sherlock... and the curiosity in Sherlock's. Only a fool would have ignored it. He felt like puking, felt sickened at the thought of Sherlock being anywhere near that creep. And that of Sherlock being even remotely interested in him...ugh. No. Don't think like that. Sherlock couldn't  _possibly._

Sarah sat next to him, tapping her foot impatiently while Mr. Tenant lectured them on...pulleys. Yes, pulleys. Or levers. Clearly something long and cylindrical.

"Guess what Jeanette asked me," Sarah whispered into his ear during class.

John turned to her, raising his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

She smirked at him. "She asked if we were dating."

John's eyes widened with horror, but he toned down the expression to one of polite interest. "Oh?" he asked stupidly.

"Yeah. I told we were. We are, aren't we?" She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, fluttering her eyelashes coquettishly. John felt slightly sick. How on earth could he have found her attractive? He didn't know how to reply, but on one hand...if Sherlock knew they were dating, maybe he wouldn't be suspicious of John's feelings. It would slow down the deductions a bit.

"Uh,” he awkwardly patted Sarah’s hand. “I suppose, if you want to, er, call it that.”

***

 

The school library may have been detestable, but there were certain advantages. It was quiet, and Sherlock needed silence to calm himself down. He was at the very back of the library, shielded from view by the large bookshelves, running his fingers down the volumes tightly wedged in.

_Boring, boring...boring..._

"You don't seem like the popular literature sort of bloke to me," a familiar drawl sounded. Sherlock turned around, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the pale, dark haired boy standing at the other end, leaning against the opposite bookshelf. His lips quirked up in a smirk when Sherlock's gaze fell on him.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said in a low voice, taking in the neatly tucked shirt, the tightly knotted tie, the obsessively combed hair; and the gleam of malice in those eyes. Sherlock repressed a shudder, slightly unsure of what caused it. Jim walked up to him, standing a bit too close, so close that Sherlock could smell his cologne from six inches up. He plucked the book out of Sherlock's fingers, turning it over in his hand, a smile playing on the corner of his lips.

" _Organic Chemistry,´_  he mused. Then, reached up and put it back in the shelf, unnecessarily brushing against Sherlock as he did so. Sherlock stiffened at the slight physical contact. "Boring. Too plain for that great big head of yours, don't you think?" He leaned his shoulder against the shelf, crossing his arms over his chest, raising a thin eyebrow and looking up at Sherlock from under his long eyelashes. He seemed to be made of porcelain, delicate, fragile, as if it were physical proof that all of Sherlock's deductions regarding him were wrong. He couldn't  _possibly_ be dangerous.

Then again, Sherlock was hardly made of muscle. He could still be extremely dangerous, given the right tools.

"Are you here to engage in small talk?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow back at him.

"I'm making friends," he cocked his head to one side. "Aren't I?"

"You're wasting your time," Sherlock inspected his fingernails carelessly. "I don't have friends."

Jim whistled. "What  _lies_ , Sherlock. Do you kiss John with that mouth?"

Sherlock bristled immediately. He kept his face impassive, guarded. Something told him that Jim wouldn't be easy to fool. And the less he knew about him and John, the better. Even hearing him say his name made him want to punch him across that delicate jaw.

"I don't believe that's any of your business."

Both his eyebrows went up, a condescending tilt to his lips. "I seem to have touched a nerve."

Sherlock's lip curled. He could easily crack his ribs right now, could bash his skull in, could do any number of highly unpleasant things. But he didn't, because he  _knew_ what he was trying to do. And he was...curious. Jim was a problem he needed to solve; not like John, John was like a birthday present that he wanted to unwrap, slowly and lazily and lovingly; Moriarty made his skin itch and his stomach turn, it made him want to clutch his hair in frustration because  _what made him tick?_

He leaned in closer to Moriarty, bending so he could look into those eyes. "What do you want?" he asked softly.

Jim giggled. "Oh honey, we both know what I want."

Sherlock pulled back, ignoring the roll of his stomach at his words. He felt the hair at the back of his neck stand to attention. "Stay away from me," He whispered menacingly, and walked out of the room. He wanted to warn him to stay away from John as well, but he didn't need to draw attention to their relationship. He would know if he tried to do anything to John. And, well, Jim wouldn't be stupid enough to try.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice anyone standing outside, which would have been unusual for him, but he was still seething, still thinking of that fucking smirk plastered on his face, as if he  _knew_ something Sherlock didn't- So he didn't notice the purposely outstretched leg outside the library door and tripped, sprawling spectacularly on his hands and knees to the floor. Pain flared in his chest and his knees, and he rolled over, hearing the sniggering from above. He looked up, resting on his elbows, eyes narrowing at the sight of Anderson and one of his friends, Carl Powers, he assumed- smirking down at him.

"Freak's too blind to notice where he's going," Anderson sniggered, and Sherlock didn't care, Sherlock didn't  _think_ , he just felt so fucking  _angry_ all of a sudden, he shot to his feet, and without preamble rammed his knuckles into Anderson's cheekbone.

Anderson staggered, clutching his jaw, and Sherlock was just massaging his stinging knuckles when Carl Powers shoved him roughly against the opposite wall with a snarl.

"Bloody freak," he spat, and pinned his elbow against Sherlock's throat. Sherlock struggled, trying to free himself of his grasp, he could feel the bony elbow digging into his windpipe- the bloke would crush it at this rate—

"Hey! Hey, get your hands off him!" suddenly someone shouted, and Sherlock would have recognized that voice anywhere.

John prised Carl away from him, giving him a rough shove on the chest so he staggered backwards. Sherlock took a great gulp of air, his knees buckling slightly. Relief flooded his lungs and his brain, and all his brain could manage to think was  _Thank God. John._

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he seethed. His voice was calm, cold, and bloody terrifying. If he was Powers, he would have run away.

"John—" Sherlock tried to say weakly, but his voice was all breathy and even he couldn't hear it, and John took no notice of him, continuing to stare down Powers. Sherlock was slightly worried John might punch him, because he got riled up easily, and the last thing he wanted was for him to get into trouble because of  _him._

"Ask your boyfriend," he sneered, pulling Anderson up from the ground. "Bloody psychopath—"

"Fuck off," John spat. "And don't you dare touch him again, do you hear me?"

"Or what?" Carl said, stepping closer to John. He was a few inches taller, but John had more muscle. Anderson realised things were getting heated, and he stood up, trying vainly to pull Carl back. The both of them were nose to nose, John glaring at Carl with his ice-cold eyes.

"Don't test me," John whispered.  _Damn._ Sherlock’s entire body flooded with heat at the tone, at John’s threatening stance and his darkened eyes. John so rarely looked like that, it was almost as sudden as flicking a switch. Sherlock had known, only in theory, that John was prone to be protective of people; his mother, his younger sister. To see those tendencies in action, and regarding _him,_ was…Sherlock swallowed. Well, it was certainly something.

Anderson succeeded in pulling Carl away with a frightened whisper of, "Blake'll be here any moment, come  _on,"_ They stalked away then, Carl's narrowed eyes glaring at John the whole time.

John turned to Sherlock, then, his eyes still blazing. His expression turned to one of worry and he quickly moved towards him. Sherlock coughed weakly, clutching his throat, and John's warm hands gently pulled him away from the wall, rubbing circles on to his back. Sherlock immediately melted into the half embrace, and if he’d felt light headed during their dancing lessons, this was something else entirely.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," he breathed, as Sherlock leaned against him slightly. He was quite capable of walking without support, but he wanted more of John’s touch, more of the steadying hand at the small of his back. John rubbed his back soothingly, still looking concerned. "Are you alright? Do you want to tell me what happened?"

"Your boyfriend's got a nasty temper."

The both of them turned around, to behold Jim Moriarty casually leaning against the door frame, smirking at the pair of them.

John tensed immediately. "You  _saw_  what happened?"

"Obviously. Quite a show." He delicately inspected his fingernails, the very picture of nonchalance, and Sherlock wanted to strangle him.

"Quite a _show?_ You  _fucking bastard_ ," John spat, moving away from Sherlock and towards Jim. The sudden absence of contact made him feel cold, and he felt even worse when John grabbed Moriarty by the collar and shoved him up against the wall. John had quite a penchant for brawling, and he'd rather his best friend  _didn't_ end up in Blake's office. "You saw it and you didn't say anything? Are you mad? Just stood there, enjoying it?"

Jim didn't say anything, he just continued regarding him with the soft eyes and the cold smile. Then his eyes moved to Sherlock. "You've got your pet rather well trained."

"You bloody—" John’s lip curled and his fingers tightened in Jim’s shirt. Sherlock could tell from the tensing of his body that John was going to do something particularly violent.

"John," he warned, grabbing John's arm and tugging him away from Jim before he could wrap his fingers around Jim's throat. "He's not worth it. Come on."

John turned to him disbelievingly. "The smarmy—"

"I know." Sherlock said quietly, his gaze on Jim now. "Don't. It'll just make you feel worse. Come on."

Jim smirked, abut didn't say anything. Not until Sherlock had been successful in pulling John away from him and halfway down the corridor.

“Ciao, boys!" he called after them. “The flirting isn’t over Sherlock!”

***

When they were down a different corridor, and hopefully well away from Jim, John stopped, leaning against the wall, and took a deep shuddering breath. Sherlock watched him wearily as he pinched the bridge of his nose, like he often did when he was trying to control his temper. Sherlock  _hated it_ , he hated it when John was angry, and wound up, and what made him feel even angrier that Jim could  _so easily_ provoke John, when he had no fucking  _right_ to. John cracked his neck twice before opening his eyes, those dark blue eyes boring right into his own.

" _The flirting isn't over_?" he repeated, in a low voice. “What is wrong with him?”

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. And I don't care."

"He's deranged."

"Possibly."

John cracked a smile at that. "What did he want with you, anyway?"

Sherlock made a vague hand gesture. "I don't know, John. I don't want to talk about him." The hand gesture, however, involved flexing his fingers, and he realised that his knuckles were in agony. He made a hiss of pain, and gingerly brought his hand back, seeing the bruise blossoming on the pale skin for the first time.

"Oh, shit," John moved towards him instinctively, taking his hand gently in his own. He brushed a thumb over the knuckles, inspecting the marred skin. Sherlock watched John's expression, almost fascinated; it was extraordinary how John's face could change from glacial fury to deadly calm to gentle concern all in the space of five minutes. "Sherlock, what—"

"It's nothing," Sherlock quickly tried to retract his hand, but John wasn't having it. He gripped his wrist, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.

"You punched him. Anderson." John seemed to be trying very hard to hide a smile.

"I'll leave you to your deductions," Sherlock muttered.

Then John chuckled. "Was it something he said? You don't get into fights." He kept his grip on his wrist, pulling him down the corridor, presumably to the washroom. Sherlock's mind could zoom into a number of possible reasons for this, but the most enticing ones were also the least probable. It was probably because John wanted to take care of the injury.  _Dull_.

"The usual. Should have ignored it. Usually do." John had finally brought the both of them to the loo. Bringing him over to the sink, he turned the tap on, and gently placed Sherlock's hand under the ice cold water. It hurt at first, and Sherlock hissed at the stinging sensation, but then it ceased and it felt much better. Trust John to make things better.

He was looking at him, concerned, now. "Why didn't you?" His voice was low, almost hesitant.

Sherlock looked at him, taking in the eyes, the careful line of his lips, the Adam's apple bobbing apprehensively in his throat. He shook his head. "I don't know. Anderson is an idiot, and so is Carl Powers. I don't care for either of them- but. I don't know," he closed the tap, leaning his hip against the cold porcelain, gazing at John.

"It's that psychopath. Moriarty or whatever," John was rummaging in his bag for something. "He winds you up. He makes you angry. Hardly anyone is capable of doing that. So why him?" he had finally found it- crepe bandages. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Do you carry that around with you?"

"Obviously. I'm best friends with a madman who doesn't know how to take care of himself. I have to be prepared for injuries. And don't change the subject." He pulled Sherlock's unresisting wrist towards him, started to twist the bandage around his knuckles.

Sherlock watched John's fingers for a while, marvelling at how wonderful and amazing and absolutely brilliant John was, before answering. "He's smart," he replied simply. John looked at him then.

"Like you."

"Like—

"No, no, wait," John shook his head. "No, of course not. I'm sorry, I didn't mean that." He started to unroll the bandages.

"John—"

"No, you're not like him. He's creepy and unhinged and you're not like that at all. So I'm sorry. He may be smart, but he's psychotic." John was gingerly wrapping the bandages around his hand now.

"People generally assume  _I'm_ the psychopath." Sherlock was trying to carry on the conversation while simultaneously trying to decipher the meaning of John's words in his head,  _he's creepy and unhinged and you're not like that at all_. Obviously. John, with his limited knowledge of Sherlock would naturally assume he was amazing and brilliant and all the things that he was not, even though he had a feeling that he  _was_ a bit like Jim. A disturbing thought, one that made him feel slightly nauseous; but one that for some reason, seemed very, very true. It would have to be examined later.

"They're wrong." John tightly bound the bandage together, finally letting go of Sherlock's hand.

"You're right," Sherlock smirked. "The correct term is  _high functioning sociopath_."

John looked slightly taken aback. "Sherlock, you're not a sociopath."

Sherlock scoffed. "You're the first one to say that. But I assure you, I am. I've been tested. Medically. Diagnosed. By experts."

Now it was John's turn to scoff. "Then they don't know shit. When were you tested?"

Sherlock shrugged. "When was I  _not_ tested? Mother and Father didn't think I was normal. So they had me tested. Over and over and over again. Enlarged brain capacity, high IQ, sociopathic tendencies, can't feel, can't cry. I didn't get jokes. I poisoned the cat. I wanted to keep dead frogs in the fridge. None of that was  _normal_."

Sherlock listed all the things that had been scribbled onto a medical report and shoved under his parent's noses. Practically the bare minimum that anyone needed to know before they went fleeing. And Sherlock could remember,  _god_ , he could remember. He could remember the harsh, bright lights and people in lab coats asking him questions,  _experimenting_ , like he was some sort of a lab rat. Poking him and prodding him until they told his parents and his brother that Sherlock wasn't capable of displaying any form of emotion.

John looked at him with an expression of horror, and Sherlock shut up immediately.  _Fuck_. He shouldn't have told him. Now John would run, like everyone else. Because that's what people did, didn't they? They realised he was different, and they didn't like it, and they made a run for it.

"Oh, god, Sherlock,  _no,"_ John breathed, and before Sherlock had any time to react, he had thrown his arms around his torso and was crushing his ribs so hard he could barely breathe. Sherlock's senses were suddenly assaulted by John; the smell of him, the feel of him against his chest, and his fingers twitched with the need to wrap his own arms around him and press him even closer. He seemed to be literally drowning in him, because  _never- oh god-John_. This couldn't  _possibly-_

"You complete  _idiot_ ," John mumbled against his shoulder, hugging him even tighter. Sherlock closed his eyes to just relish the warmth of John's body against his own, the few layers of clothing that separated them- "You utter  _fool_ ," Then he pulled away, his hands were still lightly around his waist, but he was looking at Sherlock then, his eyes round and warm and a pink flush creeping up his cheeks. "Sherlock, that's not true.  _At all_. They're wrong, do you hear me? Your parents, the experts, I don't care, they're all idiots. They don't know you, I do. You are brilliant and warm and funny, and you're a bit crazy, but that's just a part of you. You are not a  _sociopath_ , for god's sake, of course you have feelings. Your parents are blind; they don't know how fantastic you are. Sherlock," John moved his hands from his hips to place them on either side of his face, his thumbs resting on his cheekbones, his eyes boring into his own. Sherlock's lips parted at the look on his face. "John-" he started.

"No, listen to me, you bastard. Stop this. Stop this right now. You’re _not_ some sort of cold robot that all those fools make you out to be, okay? I know you, and I've seen you, and you have feelings, and emotions, and all that other rubbish- they just haven't been special enough to be on the receiving end of it. You have to stop this. I don't want you to think of yourself in this way. Okay? Sherlock, do you understand?"

"John, I-" he couldn't finish that sentence. His brain seemed to be working sluggishly slow, unable to comprehend just how  _much_ those words meant to him he could hardly believe them- no one,  _no one_ had ever said these things to him- and how could John? John was perfect, whole, unbroken, and he thought Sherlock,  _Sherlock,_ of all people—

“Hey,” John continued, softly. The hands around his cheeks cupped over his ears, fingers sweeping into his hair. Did John know what he was doing to him, touching him this way, saying all of those things about him? Probably not. Sherlock stared at him, his breath caught somewhere in his chest. “Say yes, you clot.”

Sherlock couldn’t actually speak; his throat was too dry. So he just settled for nodding slowly, and then, with a great deal of effort, he said, very quietly, “Yes.”

John smiled, a soft, sweet thing that Sherlock wanted to touch with his finger tips. Which was something he was not allowed to do, obviously. His hands twitched at his sides. He thought John would let go now, now that he had wrangled that out of him, except John was still touching him, hands in his hair and body far too close to his. They were both quiet, John looking at him so fondly that it _hurt_ to be the object of that gaze. And then, almost imperceptibly, John’s eyes flicked down to his mouth, and then back up to his eyes. His cheeks were pink.

Sherlock swallowed. “John,” he said. He didn’t know what else to say. He felt far too warm.

John kissed him.

Pressed his mouth to his in a completely undeniable way, and Sherlock froze. His fingers, gripping the edge of the porcelain sink tightened in surprise and his brain did something very close to short-circuiting. He could almost hear the sudden _spark_ as every one of his mental processes grinded to a halt.

John Watson was kissing him. _Kissing him._ Their lips were touching, and Sherlock had no idea what to do.

John must have felt his uncertainty, could sniff it out like he always did, but the moment Sherlock could feel the slightest pulling away, his hands seemed to move of their own accord and they curled into John’s shirt instead, pulling him back, and up; John made a deep noise in the back of his throat and obligingly pressed up on the balls of his feet, his hands holding his face and pulling him down to kiss him more effectively.

All he could think about was how _lovely_ John’s mouth was, his lips a little chapped but so warm, and when John pushed him, (a little roughly) against the sink and prised his lips apart with his tongue, he felt light headed. Sherlock had never kissed anyone before but the way John was sweeping inside his mouth and licking into him; practiced and sure and so _competently,_ he could see what all the fuss was about.

He could feel himself slipping, either from dizziness or the rapid, haphazard beating of his heart, but John’s arms wrapped around his waist and prevented it; Sherlock couldn’t help but notice how perfectly they fit around him.

He could feel the barest edge of John’s teeth, and he made an embarrassing noise; a moan? More of a squeak, and it made heat travel down his body, gather in his groin. The kiss was quickly turning desperate and demanding, the edge of the sink was pressing into the small of his back and John was pressed against him so tightly that the only thing that separated them were their clothes. Sherlock held on to him for dear life; content to just stay there and be kissed by John, pinned to the sink and trapped by the weight of his body. John, with his compact presence, eclipsed everything else; Sherlock had been woefully wrong about how much of an effect this would have on him. There was only John’s mouth, his breath, his hands.

He didn’t know if he was doing it right, and he really wanted to ask John if this was how you were supposed to do it (what if this was all he got? Shouldn’t he make it memorable?) but he didn’t want to break the spell. So he decided to stay still and just keep his mouth a little slack, spread his legs a little, and pull John closer to himself. He could feel John’s day old stubble against his skin, it was going to leave a mark. John groaned into his mouth, his hips rocking a little against his, and Sherlock could feel the beginnings of an erection against his thigh.

It should have alarmed him, because he was entirely unprepared for _that,_ except his own trousers were beginning to get a little tight too. He curled his fingers into John’s hair. John tasted lovely, like something warm and familiar and comforting and usually being shoved up against any surface was not something Sherlock generally liked; (because it usually was a precursor to getting beaten up) except this was _John,_ who was brilliant and kind and who kissed him so _perfectly_ that it made him feel tingly and comforted and weak in the knees, all at the same time.

Sherlock never wanted it to stop.

Except the moment the thought came to his head that he really wanted this to go on forever, there was a horrible, trilling noise; the sound of the period bell.

Then there was a gasp, and John was gone. It took a while for Sherlock to realize his body wasn't pressed against John's anymore, there was a faint buzz in his ears and his lips were still tingling. Not to mention the uncomfortable ache in his groin. He had to blink several times before everything came into focus, and then he saw John, staring at him wide eyed, his hair mussed and cheeks pink.

He looked frozen. Horrified.

Oh. Of course.

John hadn’t planned to do it, after all. With a horrible, sinking feeling, Sherlock realised that a kiss, in the end, was all he was likely to get. From the way John was looking at him, terrified and pale, John was already regretting it.

“Sherlock,” he whispered. “I-“

“John,” Sherlock repeated, gingerly stepping away from the sink. He still felt dizzy. John held up a hand. Cold seeped into Sherlock at the gesture.

Of course. Of _course_ this was how it was going to go. He was a fool to have thought otherwise. Hormones, adrenaline, emotions. Things that Sherlock had such difficulty understanding; and yet they were the reason for John’s unpredictable actions.

He had thought, maybe…if John had kissed him…but-

“No, don’t,” John shook his head. “Or I’ll just. God, I’m so sorry, I don’t know- what came over me. I, I don’t know why I did that.”

Sherlock’s heart plummeted to his stomach. “You don’t?” he asked, weakly.

He should have felt furious. He wanted to. Why did John do it then, if he was going to act like it was the most terrible mistake of his life afterwards? Sherlock didn’t mind a lot of things, when it came to John, but being treated like a regret was not something he could endure. Especially if it was John. Because Sherlock didn’t regret it. Not one bit.

John kept shaking his head, opening and closing his mouth like he couldn’t decide what to say.

“John, it’s alright,” he said, trying to be reassuring, even though he didn’t feel very reassured himself. He wanted to go closer to John, bridge the gap between the two of them, but from the way John was looking at him, he could tell it would be an unwelcome gesture.

But what of the hollow steadily growing larger in his gut? What about the horrible, _awful_ feeling that he’d ruined everything by wanting just a little bit more than they had? Sherlock couldn’t pretend like this meant nothing to him. Maybe John could put it off as adrenaline or hormones, but Sherlock…couldn’t.

“I-“ John stepped away from him then, and Sherlock watched quietly as he picked up his bag and started to leave, and then he stopped, so far away from Sherlock. Like he couldn’t stand to be close to him. Sherlock felt ill.

“Look,” he said, trying to be firm, but his voice was unsteady. “We can just…forget this happened, yeah? Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

And without another word, he left.

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pour out your frustration in the comments!!!! ^_^


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fortune favours the brave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just hold on a little longer, my dudes.

:11:

Mycroft had dealt with Sherlock enough to know when he should be worried. Now was one of those times.

And things had been going so  _well_. He thought John Watson had been a good influence on his brother; but he had been utterly blind, and hadn't realised just how  _dependent_ he had become on him. He knew John adored him, of course, you would be an idiot to not see that—but something had  _definitely_ happened and now he was worried.

Sherlock had been attending classes fairly regularly the past month or two. Ever since he had met John. He was, of course, an intelligent child and had no difficulty in his classes, his marks never dropped. And now he was holed up in his bedroom,  _asleep_. He had refused to go to school. It had been a very long time since Mycroft had been subject to his tantrums. But Sherlock had shouted and grumbled and grouched and thrown his things at anyone who tried to come into his room. In the end Mycroft gave up. His parents had given up much before that.

He tried speaking to him. It didn't work.

" _Sherlock?" he called softly, knocking on the door._

" _Go away!" he shouted back. His voice was scratchy and broke a bit in the middle of the sentence._

" _Why don't you open your door?"_

" _Why do you_ think _, you great big ponce?"_

_Mycroft sighed. Insults. Stellar start to a meaningful conversation. "Sherlock, it would be in your best interests to—"_

" _I’m not a political deal you have to negotiate, Mycroft. So do yourself a favour and go the fuck away!"_

 _Cussing. A new development. This was out of the ordinary. Something really_ was  _wrong._

" _Is this something to do with John Watson?" he asked. Stupid question. Not your best line of questioning._

_Silence on the other end of the door. Bingo._

" _Open your door," Mycroft repeated._

" _No," was all Sherlock said. His voice had lost its forcefulness. "Just leave me alone. Please.”_

_That had signalled the end of his attempt._

Mycroft sighed. He really needed to get back to work, to his flat in London. But he didn't feel comfortable leaving Sherlock alone at home, in this state. It was usually now that he...he shook his head. No, he wouldn't. He knew that Mycroft would have no other choice but to send him off to rehab.

The doorbell rang.

Mycroft waited for Rogers to go and open it, and sure enough, he heard the sound of the door opening. Low voices. A knock came on the door of his study two minutes later.

"Sir," he said. "It's a friend of your brother's, sir." He called.

Oh, lovely. John. He could finally put an end to this madness. "Show him to the sitting room, and tell him to wait. Tell him I’d like a word." he said, getting up and opening the door. Rogers nodded, scurrying downstairs to deliver the message.

***

But it was not John.

It was a different boy, frail-built, slender, dark- haired. He lounged comfortably in the arm chair, a polite smile plastered on to his face as he saw Mycroft enter. Something didn't seem right about him. Mycroft felt his scalp prickle. Now that he thought about it, John would have simply rushed upstairs to Sherlock’s bedroom, instead of obligingly waiting for Mycroft in the sitting room.

"Good afternoon," he said. "And...you are?"

"Oh, good afternoon, sir," the boy said, getting up hurriedly. "I'm Jim, sir, Jim Moriarty. I'm one of Sherlock's friends."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Friend?" he asked, looking down at the boy. “ _One_ of his _friends?_ Plural?” The boy smiled back, his soft brown gaze digging into Mycroft's. "How odd. He's never mentioned you."

"Oh, we just met yesterday. But he's such a great bloke. I was worried why he didn't come today. Thought I'd just pop in. May I?"

 _Great bloke_? This boy was very likely mistaken.

"You may. Although he's locked his door and is rather adamant to meet anyone right now. But if you believe you will be able to get to him, please be my guest."

The boy grinned, a spark of something in his eyes that Mycroft couldn't place. "Thank you, sir."

***

Sherlock lay on his back on his seldom used bed, staring up at the ceiling.

He liked it when John would take a nap on his bed. It was always big enough for the both of them, but Sherlock had never tried to lie down next to him. John probably wouldn’t be doing any of that anymore. He’d be too afraid of accidentally snogging Sherlock and well, he thought bitterly, John seemed to be quite keen on avoiding that. 

After he’d left Sherlock didn’t even try to follow him. He’d just stood there, leaning against the sink, waiting for the dizzying speed of his heart to slow down and for his head to clear, and then he’d quietly gone home. School seemed mortifying at the moment, what with seeing John again and having to see that look in his eyes; regret? Embarrassment? Sherlock would just remind John of his _mistake_ and Sherlock didn’t want to looked at like that. He wouldn’t be able to bear it.

He was being stupid. Illogical. All of the things he detested. But he’d almost had something he really wanted, and just like that, it was gone.

Maybe he’d been wrong to want something. He knew what John tasted like. And now he wanted to taste him, again, and again, and again. How could he control himself when all he wanted to do was pull John against himself and demand that John kiss him again, just like that?

It had been exactly twenty five hours since he had seen John last, and he didn't know whether it was healthy to miss a person quite so much.

(It was fine, though. Sherlock kept telling himself that he could delete it. Make the most of the memory for a while, and then lock it up somewhere in his mind palace where he’d never have to think about it again, except maybe, when Sherlock felt very lonely, and missed John, he could just replay it for a second, the feel of John’s mouth against his own, just for a little while.)

It wasn’t possible. To  _want_ a person quite so much. Surely no one had ever wanted someone as much as he wanted John right now.

Someone rudely interrupted his thoughts by knocking on the door.

"What have I said about fucking off?" he screamed, throwing a book at the door. The door rattled with the force of  _Advanced Quantum Physics._

"My, my, what a temper."

Sherlock's blood froze.

 _What_ was he doing here? How  _dare_ he come here? He scrambled out of bed, not caring that he was just dressed in a pair of track pants and his hair was a mess. He threw the door open, keeping his expression carefully neutral. Jim stood in front of him, a smirk playing on his mouth.

"Afternoon," he drawled, his eyes raking Sherlock's torso. "Well, don't you look ravishing?" he smiled. He stepped closer to Sherlock, and Sherlock immediately stepped back. Jim took the opportunity of entering his room and shutting it shut with his foot. He leaned back against it, taking in Sherlock's dump of a room, his arms crossed over his chest. He was still in his uniform, so he had inevitably come here from school. Jim loosened his tie. "Lovely place you have here. Always knew you were one of the posh ones."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock finally seemed to find his voice. He felt exposed without his t-shirt, but he didn't want to draw attention to the fact. So he just stood straighter, on his guard. “And who let you in?”

"Well, you didn't come today, did you? I missed you. And as for who let me in, I rang the bell and your butler opened it, Sherlock, don’t be tedious. I didn’t climb through a window."

Sherlock snorted. "Very well. Nevertheless, I really don't want you here. So turn around and Rogers will show you out. Good day."

"Oh, you don't mean that, do you?" Jim stepped closer to him. He reached a hand up, brushing the back of Sherlock's cheek with his knuckles. Goosebumps erupted on Sherlock's exposed skin. He took a step back.

"I said leave," he said, but his voice didn't sound as forceful as he meant it to.

Jim probably noticed to, because he laughed. A condescending little laugh that made Sherlock want to strangle him. "Why don't you tell me why you played hooky today instead?" he walked further into Sherlock's room, walking with his usual blend of casual grace and predatory intent. He stood in front of Sherlock's crime board. He couldn't see his expression.

"None of your concern," Sherlock said, finally moving over to the side of his bed and pulling on a T-shirt.

Jim turned around, his eyes taking in the new garment. Sherlock noticed the knowing look, but Jim didn't say anything. Smirking, he said, "I believe it is. Come on. Go on. Tell me. Something to do with Little Johnny, is it? What happened, love? Trouble in paradise?" he finished the last part of the sentence with a sneer.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. God, he hated him so much. He was cruel. He was cruel for bringing that up. What did he  _want_ from him?

"Like I said, it's none of your concern."

"You look a mess. Come on. Let's go for a walk." Jim sauntered over to him, running his fingers over Sherlock's bed as he did so. He stood in front of him again, uncomfortably close. Sherlock stood his guard. The last thing he needed was Jim assuming he was afraid of him.

"Absolutely not," he replied, putting a palm on Jim's chest and pushing him back, gently, but firmly. "Take a walk by yourself."

"Come off it. You want to come with me, you know you do."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And why do you propose I would want to do that?"

Jim smiled knowingly. "Because you're bored. And you're curious. One of my favourite combinations."

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, studying Jim. The brown hair, now slightly tousled, sticking up in every direction over his head. The tie. The uniform. Why was it so impossible to deduce him?

"You have a very high opinion of yourself, don't you?"

Jim looked unperturbed by Sherlock's scornful tone. "Of course. Something we have in common. You won't disappoint me, will you?" He lifted a hand to run a finger down the side of Sherlock's throat. His heart rate doubled.

Swallowing thickly, Sherlock grabbed Jim's wrist lightly and pushed it down. “Disappointing you is hardly something I care about. Go. You're wasting your time."

"Oh  _please_. You're dying to come with me. And you know that I know. Come on, Sherlock, aren't you  _curious_? I can see it, you know. I can see it in the way your fingers twitch," he brushed a hand down Sherlock's arm. "I can see it in your  _eyes_. You're dying to see what makes...me... _tick_." He kept coming closer, with each word, until his face was a centimetre away from his own, his gaze on Sherlock's mouth, his own lips parting.

Sherlock moved away from him immediately, all too aware of the sweat trickling down the back of his neck, although it must be freezing outside.

"What are we going to do?" he asked, his voice sounding a bit strangled to his own ears.

Jim smiled, triumphantly. "Oh, nothing much. We'll just...talk," his gaze darkened at the word. "And smoke. You're dying for a fag, aren't you? You've been trying to cut down, haven't you? For John, I'm assuming. But I don't think John really cares, either way."

Sherlock felt his swollen throat and the moisture in his own eyes.  _You're not going to cry, are you? Stop it. Not in front of Jim, you idiot. That's what he wants. That's what he's trying to do. John likes you. He said so, remember? Come on. Don't listen to Jim. He's an idiot. He doesn't know John, you do._

Sherlock cracked his neck. "Very well. Ten minutes." He leaned over the side of the bed, grabbing his coat.

He was curious, after all.

***

There was a little-frequented cemetery a few minutes away from Sherlock's neighbourhood. He knew it well, of course; there had been a murder there, two years ago. When Sherlock was a skinny fourteen year old and nobody took him seriously. They put the wrong man in jail, of course.

Jim took him there. Unsurprising. A bit crass. Predictable. Graveyards hardly unsettled him. The dead were comforting.

"Funny, isn't it?" Jim asked, taking out a cigarette from his pocket and handing him one. He lit his cigarette, before leaning in and lighting Sherlock's. "The way we bury our dead."

Sherlock inhaled the smoke, leaning against the yew tree that had been ever since he had come here the first time. He squinted at Jim. "Why is it funny?"

Jim trailed his fingers over a tombstone. "They're afraid of them, but they'll keep them. They'll bury them under layers of dirt, out of  _respect_. Getting smothered in mud isn't respect."

"Ah, well. Humans are stupid. Or haven't you noticed?"

"Oh, I have. I have. You think they're stupid too, don't you? I can see it in the way you look at everyone," he smirked, walking towards him and leaning against the tree next to him. "That  _disgust_ in your face. I understand. People are so  _slow_." He slid down the trunk of the tree, drawing his knees to his chest. He grabbed Sherlock's wrist to pull him down as well.

"And you're not?" he asked, removing his wrist from Jim's grasp as soon as he was sitting, his pyjama- clad legs stretched out in front of him.

"I would've thought you'd noticed it by now," Jim flicked some ash off the tip of his cigarette. "I noticed  _you_ , didn't I?"

"Everyone notices me," Sherlock said, his tone betraying more emotion than he wanted to let on.

The corner of Jim's lip twitched. "Yes, but not for the reasons you  _should_ be noticed."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What do you want, Jim? Why are we here?"

Jim turned his head towards him. "You should ask yourself that question." He drummed his pale fingers on Sherlock's knee. "You're not the only one who gets  _bored_."

Sherlock stared at those fingers, making circles on his thigh, taking liberties, taking risks,  _touching_. He should leave. He should go, tell Jim to fuck off and leave him alone. Why was he staying? Why was he still here?

"I'm sure there are better ways of satisfying your curiosity," Sherlock muttered, taking Jim's hand, to move it away, but Jim interlaced their fingers instead, forcefully.

"There are  _other_ ways, but there are no  _better_ ways, Sherlock," He lifted their entwined hands and brushed his lips against Sherlock's skin. Sherlock shuddered, trying to tug his hand away, but he wasn't trying hard enough.

"So that's what you think I am? A means to an end?" He finally succeeded in freeing himself from Jim's grasp.

Jim smirked. "You are  _so_ much more than that. You don't realise, do you? All the  _brilliant_ things you could do. You're so much  _smarter,_ Sherlock, so much  _better_. And yet you...you just let it go. You think John appreciates you?"

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped. "That…John, is none of your concern." He was not allowed to talk about John. He had no  _right_.

He chuckled darkly. "You're so  _sensitive_ about your little pet. You'd do anything for him, wouldn't you? People do love their pets…But  _him_ , I don't know," he studied his fingers nonchalantly. “Although pets can be startingly loyal. Replaceable, though.”

"Shut up," Sherlock repeated, his voice betraying the faintest hint of a tremble.

"You're in love with him." he turned to him, only the barest hint of a smirk on his face. The sentence was delivered with alarming bluntness. Sherlock felt the back of his throat swell, his heart rate increasing. "He's fit, I'll grant you that. Sure love the rugby boys. Nice…arms."

"Don't talk about him like that," he snapped, standing up. He’d had enough of this.  "And it's  _none of your_ fucking _business_."

Jim stood up too, standing in front of him, stepping close so he was slightly trapped. He could overpower him, he was taller. And yet...

"It's my business if you're not appreciated, Sherlock," Jim whispered, reaching up to brush his thumb against Sherlock's cheekbone. "Don't you think you deserve better?" He stepped closer, so there was hardly any distance between them. He reached up to cup the back of Sherlock's neck. “Love won’t make you reach your full potential. If it’s sex you want, that can be arranged. But otherwise, love? Love is a crutch. A paralytic. Best be rid of it.”

_Get out. Run. Run. Get away from him._

"John isn't any of your concern," he said, his voice far too low and far too soft.

"True. He isn't. But you are," he pulled his neck forward, so he could reach up, his lips too close to Sherlock's mouth to be innocent anymore.

"Jim—" Sherlock started, putting a hand lightly on his chest. Jim smirked, moving forward. His lips pressed against Sherlock's, his tongue skirting out to flick against his bottom lip, and he was about to deepen it, when Sherlock pushed him back with both hands.

Jim stumbled.

Sherlock moved away from the tree, away from Jim, feeling like he was about to be sick. He rubbed his hand over his lips forcefully, like that would wash away the ghost of Jim's touch.

"Oh come on, darling, you know you want it," he said, leaning against the tree, looking at Sherlock with amusement. Leering, almost.

"You. Are. _Boring._ Me.”Sherlock spat. "I will only tell you this once. If you do anything to John, you will regret it immensely."

Jim laughed, throwing his head back, peels of mirth issuing from his lips. "So  _protective_. He doesn't care about you, Sherlock. He doesn't  _understand_ you. Not like I do. Not like I could. I—"

"No," Sherlock snarled, finally grabbing Jim by the front of his shirt and pushing him up against the tree. Jim whistled, eyes widening and mouth breaking into a wide, slightly manic grin. But before he could say anything, Sherlock grit his teeth. “Shut up. Not another word about John. All you do is talk. Leave me alone.”

Sherlock let go of him, feeling slightly disgusted after touching him. Jim kept smiling at him, looking amused and entertained and not at all as if Sherlock had just threatened him. Sherlock couldn’t stand this anymore.

He turned around, making his way towards the gate, not looking back, just walking quickly, trying to get as far as he could from Jim and the guilt and the filthy feeling on his mouth.

But he couldn't. Jim didn't follow him, so when he reached the gate and stepped out, he was still alone. He leaned against the stone wall, thankful for the mostly empty street, and took a shaky breath. What had he  _done_? He ran his fingers over his lips again, where he felt like he could still feel Jim clinging to them. He felt dirty, he felt  _soiled._  He wanted to wash his mouth out with detergent, salt water, acid, anything that would wash away that filthy feeling. What would John say? Oh  _John..._ if he hadn't ruined their friendship before, well. He had definitely done that now.

He wanted to go home.

He turned around, walking, reaching a hand up to rub his eyes, where moisture was threatening to spill out.

When he came home, his parents were out, and Mycroft's car wasn't in the garage, so he must be at work too. Yet something told him that  _someone_ was home.

"Rogers?" He called, stepping into the living room. The butler came out from the kitchen.

"Ah, yes, Master Holmes. Miss. Adler is here to see you. I sent her to your room."

"Why is she in my room? You could have put her here, where the  _guests_ sit," he replied irritably, but making his way upstairs instead. He was sort of glad Irene was here. He had no idea why, it was almost seven, and Irene was usually out with her boyfriends/girlfriends at that point of time. Nevertheless, he could tell her about Jim. He needed to tell  _someone_ about that sordid accident in the cemetery. She would be able to provide perspective, she always was.

He ran up the stairs, two at a time, throwing open his door.

Irene was sitting cross legged on his blue rug, her head in her hands, sobbing.

_She's crying. She's definitely crying. Okay. Think carefully. What do people do in these situations? Hot beverage? No, ask her why she's crying first. What if she doesn't say anything? You're supposed to comfort her. Yes, but how? Embracing is the most common means of comfort. Okay. I can do that. I'll...embrace her? Hopefully she won't slap me. Irene slaps people when she's angry._

He stepped in quietly, shutting the door behind him carefully. Irene heard the noise, and she looked up. She looked terrible. Her usually perfect hair was falling apart, strands framing her swollen, tear-stained face. Her lips were dry and cracked. She looked far too pale. Sherlock was worried now. Surely someone hadn't died?  _Oh, is it a murder? Wait. No. Stop it. She'll slap you_.

"Irene?" he asked, stepping closer to her, sitting down in next to her, crossing his legs like her. Mirroring her actions would put her in a position of ease. "Why are you crying?"

 _Good start_.

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm sorry," she wailed. "I shouldn't have—but I didn't know who else to—I just couldn't—" she promptly fell to tears again.

"Er...it's...alright," he said, patting her back awkwardly. "Do you...want to talk about it?" _Please say no._

"It's...Peter," she finally chocked out, getting the name out with difficulty.

_Peter. 25 years old. Son of the one of the ministers in the House of Commons. Substandard student. Went to Oxford, (because of his father) just graduated. Didn't amount to much. Conventionally handsome and rich. Irene's type. She's crying. Dead? Or Broken Up? Not good. What was he supposed to do? He had warned her about him. Should he—no, reminding her of that was a terrible idea._

"Is he...dead?" he asked, rather hopefully.

Irene gave a short, bitter laugh.  _She's laughing. So I'm doing a good job of comforting her? No. Wait. It was sarcastic. Not doing a good job at all._

"I wish he was," she said, venomously.

"So...he's not dead."

"He cheated on me," she said dully. "He... _cheated_ on me." Then her face crumpled and she started sobbing again. "I thought—I actually thought I was in love with him," her words were slurring now, becoming incoherent, with the force of her sobs.

Sherlock awkwardly put an arm around her, supposing that this was an acceptable thing to do. He cared for Irene, he really did. She had been one of his only...friends...before John, and he didn't like seeing her hurt like this. Stupid sodding Peter.

Irene pressed herself closer to Sherlock, burying her face in his side, wrapping an arm around his torso. "I really thought...I really thought that it would be different. That  _he_ was different."

"It's...alright," he said, unsure of what else to say. He wasn't liking the physical contact very much either, but that couldn't be helped.

"I'm sorry I'm bothering you. Where were you? Why are you still in your pyjamas?" she sniffed.

"I—never mind."

"I wish boys were more like you," she gave watery laugh.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Surely you're joking."

She giggled again.  _Good sign_. "No, I mean, you'd never...cheat on me. If you didn't fancy me that way, you would have told me."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "True. And you're better off without him. He's an insufferable twat. Terribly dull."

Irene fiddled with the lapels of his coat. "I've always wondered. You know. What it to be like...to be with you. In that way."

Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. "Er...I'm not...you know I'm not..." he babbled.

"Yeah, I know. You'd never be interested in me. It's different. Usually every other boy I meet wants to fuck me. But you're...you've never been like that. That was one of the main reasons I liked you so much."

_She's distraught. She doesn't know what she's saying. Don't send her away yet._

"Well, now you know...that—er—I'm sure you'll find someone."

" _Someone,"_ she lifted her eyes to look at him. Or rather his mouth. "But not you," she bit her lip. "You would be nice."

"Irene, I—"

But she silenced him with her lips.

***

John fiddled with the stupid bowtie for the umpteenth time.

What was he even  _doing_? This entire situation was ridiculous. He didn't want to go. At all. But he had promised Sarah, and only wankers would ditch a girl on the day of a dance.

But he felt so terrible. He sat on the edge of his bed, covering his face with his hands. This had been the worst day of his life. Yesterday had possibly been worse.

John had kissed him. _Kissed him_. On his mouth. With _his_ mouth. He brought a hand up to touch his lips, remembering the feel of those lips against his, how perfectly they had fit together. They way he’d held Sherlock, pushed him against the sink, pressed their bodies together. Sherlock had felt so _right_ in his hands, how had he never realised? Sherlock was always so self possessed, so confident, and yet when John had kissed him he’d become pliant and soft, and John wanted to do _so_ much more than kiss him.

Hold his hand. Run his fingers through that ridiculous mop of hair.

But he had run away.

Like a complete, utter, _wanker._

He had actually  _fled_ , when he had wanted nothing other than to continue kissing Sherlock with all the ferocity and longing that he deserved. He couldn’t get the image of Sherlock’s face out of his head, pale and bewildered and most importantly, _hurt._ He’d _hurt_ him, John- who had promised to be his friend.

He was a coward, he really was. But he was so  _scared_. Of losing Sherlock. Wasn't it better to remain friends, with the comfort of knowing that Sherlock would always be there, than being with him in  _that_ way, the threat of him leaving him hanging over them? It was unthinkable. He couldn't bear imagining what it would be like for them, Sherlock feeling too awkward to talk to him properly anymore.

He wasn’t even sure if Sherlock had kissed him back. Maybe he thought he _had_ to. Sherlock was so terrible at reading emotions, at reading people.

Oh god, what if Sherlock was _scared_ of him now? Scared that John would pounce on him again? Worse still, what if he just went along with it because he wanted John to stay his friend?

He felt sick.

Sherlock hadn't even come to school today. The guilt in John's stomach threatened to spill out of his mouth like vomit, and he had to swallow to drive it back in. Had he really hurt Sherlock that much? Of course he had. And after everything he had told him, about his childhood. John had rejected him like everyone else. He felt disgusted with himself.

John stared at his face in the mirror. He looked as terrible as he felt. He didn’t think Sarah would very much enjoy lugging along with such a miserable-looking person, but maybe she wouldn’t even notice. She’d picked the suit. Or more like bought it for him and demanded he wear it. It looked kind of expensive, but Sarah had waved him off when he’d offered to pay her back for it.

“This is so stupid,” John muttered to himself.

The only thing he wanted to do right now was to see Sherlock. Apologise. Say he was sorry for kissing him, and that…what? What else could he say? John liked Sherlock. He really, really liked him. In a way that involved snogging, and hand holding, and lots and lots of touching. It was insane to avoid it any longer.

Did that make him gay? John squinted at himself. He didn’t _feel_ gay. He looked no different than he had the day before. Then he scowled. What was he expecting? Rainbow coloured banners to sprout out of his ears?

He didn’t think he’d ever felt that way about another boy before, which meant Sherlock was his first, and he had no _idea_ how to tell him. Was telling him even the right thing to do? He didn’t know if Sherlock felt the same way.

The very idea of telling Sherlock, letting his feelings out on _display_ like that, only to be rejected (which he absolutely deserved)-

Before he could think any further, his mother called him from downstairs.

“Ah well,” John muttered. The bowtie was practically choking him. Maybe he could somehow get through this, because it was the right, the _nice_ thing to do, then break up with Sarah. At least doing it after the dance was better, right?

With an uncomfortable tightness somewhere in his sternum that refused to dissipate, John grabbed the (now slightly wilted) bouquet of flowers that lay on his bed, and rushed downstairs. The quicker he got through this, the quicker he could concentrate on what he was going to do about Sherlock.

***

John thought about how this evening would have gone if it was _Sherlock_ he was taking to the dance instead. Hopefully the posh git would let him lead, because he’d _really_ have liked to dip him, see the familiar blush colour his cheeks, spin him around. John was still a pretty awful dancer, lessons notwithstanding, but maybe Sherlock would whisper a few tips into his ear. Then later, after all the dancing was over and Sherlock was lovely and tired and pink-cheeked, John would kiss him some more because he really, _really_ liked kissing Sherlock.

It was different, kissing Sherlock. _Especially_ someone like Sherlock, who was lithe and angular and unyielding where there was supposed to be softness, curves. It was practically heady when Sherlock melted underneath his hands and allowed himself to be kissed like that.

John was suddenly breathless with the realisation of how much he _wanted_ that, not just the kissing part, but having Sherlock trust him enough to be seen like that. He wanted to be worthy of that trust, and running away when Sherlock had been vulnerable and bewildered was _not_ the way to gain it.

Coming to a decision, John stopped his car, and started to turn it around, fumbling in his trouser pocket for his mobile. He tapped in Sarah’s number.

Ah well. _Fortune favours the brave,_ he thought.

The phone only rang twice before Sarah picked it up. “John, why aren’t you here yet?” she asked immediately.

“Yeah about that,” John said, slowly, measuring out his words. Sarah was a little… _reactionary_ at the best of times, and this time any anger on her part would be completely warranted, which made all of this worse. John tried to think of Sherlock, and his silver eyes, and how _much_ John had missed him, and he was so perfect and mad and amazing that if he got to have him in the way he wanted, this would all be worth it.

“Oh no,” Sarah was quick to reply, cutting off John before he could continue. “I _knew_ it. I knew this would happen.” She paused for a second, and John could hear her take a deep breath. “Is it Sherlock?”

“Um…”

“John, listen to me very carefully. I don’t care if you’ve been cheating on me. I already thought you were. You can snog Sherlock all you like but that happens _tomorrow._ I wanted to date someone from the rugby team and have him take me to the Christmas formal and _damn it,_ you will _not_ take that away from me!”

John clamped his mouth shut. He shouldn’t have been driving with his mobile stuck between his ear and his shoulder like that, but he needed to get to Sherlock as quick as possible.

“So you…you’re okay with us breaking up then?” Maybe he should have been a little offended that Sarah was only dating him because he was on the rugby team, but, well, priorities. At least she hadn’t burst into tears like John had feared.

“For God’s sake, I was going to do it anyway. You’re very fit and all, but you wouldn’t even snog me in that closet, remember? I _knew_ something was up then. _Everyone_ wants to snog me. Anyway, when will you be here?”

“Well, I…I’m not coming, Sarah,” John said lamely. “Um. I’m sorry. I have to…” John racked his brain for a second for a phrase that was boring and common enough to not raise any flags. “take care of an emergency. Uh. Bye.”

Before Sarah could reply, John let go of the phone and stuffed it into his pocket. He felt like an utter shit, but between hurting Sarah and hurting Sherlock, Sherlock was the one that mattered most. It was hardly a competition.

How could he take someone else to the dance after doing a runner on Sherlock like that?

Sherlock deserved more than that.

Sherlock deserved the _world._ He deserved John being the very best, for him. John was going to make up for it. _All_ of it. If Sherlock would let him.

John stepped on the breaks and speeded up, driving just short of the limit.

He didn’t know what he would say once he saw Sherlock. All he knew was that he had to get to him, and say sorry, and then, well, he would figure it out. Sherlock always made him feel cleverer than he was. (Despite the fact that Sherlock called him an idiot with alarming frequency)

When he finally reached Sherlock’s house, he barrelled out of his car,

Then he ran as fast as he could, hammering on the door. He only realised he could have just as easily rung the bell when Rogers opened the door.

"Mr. Watson," he said, surprised. "What can I—"

"No time to chat, Rog!" John called, pushing him aside and running across the living room and up the staircase.

***

Sherlock broke away from her as soon as he heard someone bang the door open. The kiss had lasted roughly for seven seconds. He should have pushed her away before.

He turned to the door to see who it was.

John.

The first thing he noticed, of course, was that John was wearing a suit and he looked utterly...well...he looked extremely attractive _._ It was a nice suit, charcoal grey, the white shirt open at the collar. John had just the barest amount of stubble covering his cheeks and his chin, which meant he hadn’t bothered to shave today.

 His mind sort of went blank. All he could think about was how much he’d _missed_ him, missed him in a physical way. Sherlock had grown so accustomed to having John by his side that even a day of having only cold emptiness (and Jim Moriarty) to keep him company had reminded him of just how _vital_ John was to him. Sherlock wanted so desperately for things to have gone differently, because seeing John, right now, made him realise that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to _bear_ it if this ruined their friendship.

The next moment, of course, he realised what John must have deduced from what he’d just seen. And seen it he must have, because he stood shock- still at his door, face drained of colour and eyes wide.

But why would John look like that, why would John look so visibly _upset,_ because John had made it clear yesterday that he wasn’t attracted to Sherlock, not really, and the kiss had been one enormous mistake. No matter how much Sherlock had wanted it to be otherwise.

“John,” Sherlock said, quietly. ”You look-“ he swallowed. “I mean, what are you doing here?”

“Well, this is…uncomfortable,” Irene suddenly remarked. Sherlock could see her standing up from the corner of his eyes, a flurry of movement as she presumably fixed her clothes and hair. He could immediately tell that she was extremely embarrassed by what she’d done, but had every intention of not letting it show.

John looked at her with an odd expression on his face, something Sherlock couldn’t read. Then his eyes dragged slowly towards Sherlock.

“I-“ he stopped, swallowing. Ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t…know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here. Why’d I come here…” he said the last bit under his breath, and dropping his gaze, shook his head slowly.

Oh _god._ This was all too familiar. Sherlock couldn’t take _another_ round of this.

“John, no, just-“ but John was already turning around and leaving, disappearing out of sight. Thankfully he couldn’t escape too quickly, and Sherlock shot to his feet and ran after him, panic starting to crawl into his gut. He managed to grab John’s arm as he met him right outside in the hallway.

“Sherlock,” John replied tiredly, turning around to face him. “I- I just. It’s fine. You and Irene were clearly-“ he made a face as though he’d swallowed something extremely unpleasant. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

“What?” Sherlock squinted at him. John couldn’t _really_ think he and Irene were… _that._ Hadn’t he explained it to him, already? “No, John, that’s not. We’re not-“

John waved him off. He wasn’t even _looking_ at him. “It’s okay,” he said, in an oddly hollow voice. “I- I shouldn’t have. I have that- dance, anyway. The…er, Christmas formal. I should. Go. There. Um.”

Sherlock was suddenly aware of an awful awkwardness between them, and clearing his throat, he let go of John’s arm. Of course. He didn’t want to make John uncomfortable. The last time they’d been this close…well.

And of course, the Christmas formal. The one Sherlock had given him lessons for. Of course John was still going. It was foolish of Sherlock to even entertain an alternate possibility. John was…well, not… _gay,_ his mind supplied helpfully. Or more importantly, not interested in Sherlock. In that way. Sarah was the object of that particular kind of interest of John’s, the target of all his easy charm and smiles. Women, in general. John was going to go there and dance with her and kiss her, probably, and he wouldn’t be horrified by it because that was _normal,_ and doing anything of the kind with Sherlock…wasn’t.

But you _came here,_ Sherlock wanted to tell him. There must be a reason behind that. Had John come to simply remind him to not fill his head with any delusions regarding the two of them? Even for John, that seemed a bit cruel. Perhaps seeing Sherlock with Irene was a relief to him.

Sherlock wanted to _say_ so many things.

Instead, he nodded. “Right. You should. We could…um, talk…later?”  He hoped he didn’t sound too hopeful at the end of it.

“Sure, yeah,” John nodded in return, smiling at him. It didn’t reach his eyes. It looked fake and plastic and plastered and for the _life_ of him Sherlock couldn’t understand why John would look like that.

Shouldn’t he be happy?

“Bye,” John told him, and patted his shoulder awkwardly.

Sherlock let him leave.

If possible, this was even _worse_ than what had happened yesterday.

“Sherlock!” Irene suddenly hissed behind him, scattering his thoughts. He could feel her grip his arm in a vice like grip and drag him back into the room.

“Oh for god’s sake, woman, haven’t you done enough,” Sherlock snarled back at her, allowing himself to be manhandled inside.

“What was that? The two of you are honestly such _idiots,_ ” Irene literally screeched. Sherlock scowled at her. Not this again. “I have never seen two people more in love. God, it made me sick. Why aren’t you going after him?”

“Because he doesn’t want me to,” Sherlock explained. “Didn’t you hear…he’s going to that Christmas formal, with some female person.”

“He came to tell you something, Sherlock! Something you probably wanted to hear, and then he saw you with me, and-“ Irene covered her face in her hands, letting out a banshee-like wail. “I’m sorry, I was so distraught, and you have a nice mouth, you can’t blame me, can you. But I really want the two of you to pull your heads out of your arses. Here, just-“ she fished something out of her pocket. A key. To her bike?

“What are you doing.”

“Just..Sherlock, just trust me, alright?” She took his palm and put the key into it, forced it in, really, and curled his fingers around it. “I know you think you know everything there is to know, but in matters of the heart, darling, you’re a bit of a novice. For once in your life, trust me and your instincts, and go after John, and tell him how you feel. Because he was going to do the same, I’m sure of it.”

Sherlock shook his head, his throat dry. “No, he- he, he kissed me, but he didn’t, he didn’t _mean_ it, he’s straight, Irene, and I- I really-“ he swallowed, his voice cracking. “He’s my best friend. What if-“

“Sherlock what if the world ended tomorrow in an enormous nuclear explosion,” Irene answered testily. Sherlock scoffed, in a rather half-hearted way. He should have been mortified,  he’d never been so… _sentimental,_ and in front of Irene? Disgusting. But his chest hurt and he hated how it felt, this awful distance between him and John and maybe, just maybe, Irene was right. Nothing could be worse than this, after all. What if it was always like this between them, the tension tight and strained and their smiles never reaching their eyes? What if this _thing_ that Sherlock could feel crawling up inside his heart just stayed there and festered and festered-

“You really think-“  

“Sherlock,” Irene said softly. She pushed him towards the door. “Fortune favours the brave.”

“There is a very thin line between bravery and stu-“

“ _Go._ ”

Sherlock went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOOD THINGS COME TO THOSE WHO WAIT !!!!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You could never scare me off,” Sherlock said quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has nearly been re-written entirely, because the old version was very OOC, so I hope those of you who are re-reading it enjoy this too!

John took another enormous swig of punch and yanked at his bowtie until it fell off his neck. He didn’t much care about what happened to it; as far as he was concerned, it had served its purpose. Besides, he was already feeling choked enough, what with all this _feeling_ that seemed to be permanently lodged in his throat.

It finally made sense to him; why feelings and emotion and “sentiment” were all so abhorrent to Sherlock. John would have very much done anything to _not_ feel the way he was feeling right now. He hated the way it felt as though his gut was tying itself into knots, the way his chest burned and burned with jealousy and disappointment and he really fucking hated how much all of it _hurt._

At least the punch was helping. He hadn’t noticed, at first, that there was alcohol in it. But by the time he’d had his fourth or fifth cup, the edges of his vision had started to turn blurry and everything was just a little bit fuzzy.

He had considered going home, of course, but his mother would be so disappointed and he could just imagine her pretty face all scrunched up and she’d be _sad_ because she thought John should have found himself a girlfriend by now, and she had been unreasonably pleased by this whole Sarah business. And she’d look at him with _sympathy_ and try to make him _feel better_ and John couldn’t handle any of that.

So instead, he’d slipped one of his juniors a tenner and asked him to sneak inside the hall and steal some punch for him, which was how he’d landed up on the dark, empty, rugby field with a  nearly empty plastic bottle of punch.

It wasn’t very _nice_ punch either, which was a pity, because after this complete train wreck of a day (and the previous one) John would have liked some nice fucking punch.

John sighed and flopped back against the grass. He hoped no one would come here and try to make him leave; he didn’t want to be anywhere but here, feeling awful and pathetic and slowly getting pissed out of his mind. He knew there were some seniors who smoked marijuana here quite regularly, so it was probably a spot where no one would come after dark.

Which meant he had all the time in the world to think about Irene kissing Sherlock.

As he’d run out of Sherlock’s house and tumbled into his car, he’d half-hoped that Sherlock would follow him out and…say something. Anything. That it was all just a stupid misunderstanding and of _course_ Sherlock liked him, how could he not? Irene was just an idiot and a distraction and _John_ was the one he actually-

But he hadn’t.

At least that was his question answered. Sherlock clearly _didn’t_ feel about him that way, and perhaps this was all for the best, because John had been saved from hearing it from Sherlock’s own mouth. _John, all sentiment is abhorrent to me. Surely you know that. The kiss was passably pleasant; I have collected the following data on it. However, I propose that we not engage is such activities again._

Possibly Irene was not hopelessly devoted to Sherlock and did not adore him as deeply as John did, which meant Sherlock could shag her with no consequences, which was obviously what he preferred. John would only bore him. How could he compete with _her,_ anyway? She was clever, and undeniably gorgeous, and perhaps the only person who Sherlock could see himself being with. They were evenly matched. John was alright as a friend, that was all.

John sighed and stared at the sky and sighed some more and wondered how he was going to hide his feelings, now that he had discovered them. Maybe with enough time, they would fade. Unless Sherlock began bringing Irene everywhere with them. John would quite possibly explode from all the pent-up jealousy that would cause. Because Sherlock could be endlessly charming when he wanted to be, and he used it on John often enough for his own means, but John _liked_ it, but to see him use it on someone else? John wouldn’t be able to stand it.

And the idea of Sherlock kissing someone else? A thousand times worse. _John_ wanted to be the one to make Sherlock blush, to make that surprised little ’ _oomph’_ he made yesterday when John had pressed his lips to his, John wanted to be the one to see Sherlock go pliant and soft, _John_ wanted to make him tremble and giggle and to put his tongue on his neck, and-

“John, what on _earth_ are you doing here?”

And now he was quite possibly hallucinating, because that sounded _very much_ like Sherlock. And sure enough, when John squinted at the tall, lanky shape that was standing over him, blotting out the moon with his dark mess of hair, it was _definitely_ Sherlock.

But this must be a manifestation of his slightly inebriated consciousness, because why would Sherlock be here? He should be back in his bedroom. Snogging Irene. Or whatever.

“Great,” he grumbled. “Now I’m hallucinating.”

“No, you’re not. Although the punch is so awful it would only be improved by the addition of hallucinogenic substances. Get up.” Sherlock nudged his side a bit with his shoe. John scowled at the apparition. He had dreamt up a very _rude_ Sherlock. More importantly, if he _was_ seeing things, shouldn’t his consciousness have conjured up a Sherlock that would, right now, be climbing on top of him and kissing him senseless?

John didn’t have time to dwell on this, because the next moment, Sherlock (Dream Sherlock? Hallucination Sherlock? Sherlock X?) was bending towards him, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him up. John’s head spun for a moment at the suddenness of being on his feet again.

“Jesus,” he groaned, and grabbed the front of Sherlock’s shirt on instinct. To balance himself. This brought him very close to Sherlock’s face; and he could not have possibly conjured this up by himself; because Sherlock looked _stunning._ He always looked stunning, but right now he looked more so than usual. His hair was a riotous mess, his eyes were bright and his cheeks glowed pink in the dark. It was possible that John was never going to get over how good Sherlock looked, all the time.

“Why’d you come here?” he asked. He really wanted to ask, _are you seeing Irene? Are you going to forget all about me now? Why’d you follow me all the way here? To tell me you’re shagging Irene Adler?_

“Because,” Sherlock began, and seemed to think better of continuing his sentence, because instead he tilted his face and pressed his lips to John’s.

Oh.

_Oh._

John’s hands immediately reached for Sherlock’s face, cupping his cheeks and pulling him closer. God, he’d _missed_ this. He’d only done it once, but kissing Sherlock was addictive. John wanted to stop for a second, ask Sherlock what the hell was going on, but Sherlock smelled heavenly and his inexpert kissing technique was oddly charming and adorable, and he was still a little drunk, and he _never ever wanted this to stop._

John kissed him back, curled his fingers against his nape, where he could feel Sherlock’s thick curls tickling his skin. Sherlock felt exactly how he’d remembered; fragile and bony, but angular and slender and _warm._ John wanted to fall against him, press their bodies together, and-

But then Sherlock pulled away from him suddenly, and pushed him back with both hands. John stumbled, only just preventing himself from falling, and feeling a bit dazed, had to blink several times to see properly again.

“You!” Sherlock suddenly said, very accusingly. “You are so _confusing._ You have been snogging Sarah since I _met_ you, and all the- the _women,_ John, they- they hang off your arm all the time, so I assume, obviously, you must like them, and then you kiss me, and then you run off, and _what am I supposed to think_?”

John’s mouth fell open. Sherlock was glaring at him, breathing hard and looking absolutely furious and _he_ was confused? Well, so was John!

“You were kissing _Irene!”_ he blurted back, because it was already on the tip of his tongue. Had Sherlock had come all the way to kiss him, and then to shout at him? _“_ She kissed you the first time I saw her, so of course I thought-“

“Goodness, John, what is it like in your head? Normally I never advise against thinking but if _that_ is what you came up with, maybe you shouldn’t. _She_ kissed _me._ And if you’d- if you’d _stayed,_ I could have explained that I didn’t _want_ her to kiss me, not at all, women aren’t even my _area,_ have you seen me with any of them, ever?”

Sherlock gesticulated wildly at the space around him, as if emphasizing that their immediate vicinity was empty of scheming women. John agreed that with the exception of Irene Adler, Sherlock never willingly hung out with anyone, male or female. But he couldn’t process so many things at the same time.

“What- what are you saying?” he asked, and he hated the edge of hopefulness in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. Sherlock had come all the way here to impress upon John that Irene Adler had forced a kiss upon him (which he was going to deal with later) and why would he go through all the effort of that if it didn’t mean something?

“I’m- I’m saying that,” he fixed John with a further glower and pressed his mouth into a hard line. “You-you keep kissing Sarah, and then you kiss me. What am I to make of that?”  And then he stepped towards John, closing the distance between them, and as always, John couldn’t think rationally at _all,_ with Sherlock so close.

“Do you regret it?”

Sherlock’s glower lessened a bit, until it was just a very intense look, and he looked a little uncertain, and _sad,_ as if he was preparing himself for rejection. And John hated himself at that moment, hated himself more than he had all day, because now he could actually _see_ it, how much he’d hurt Sherlock. How could anyone ever say that Sherlock didn’t have feelings? Sherlock felt so much that sometimes John was overwhelmed with protective tenderness, because John was the only one who understood him and could protect him from being hurt.

“Yes,” he said, steadily, and reached for Sherlock’s hand, feeling very brave, suddenly. It was cold. Sherlock looked on in surprise as John twined their fingers together. “ _But,_ ” he added quickly. “Only because I thought that I’d ruined our friendship. I thought that you didn’t want it, and that I’d scared you off for good.”

“You could never scare me off,” Sherlock said quietly. “How could you? I like you far too much for that.” And then, as if suddenly realising what he’d said, his blush deepened and he looked down at his feet. “I mean-“

“I’m sorry,” John said, in a rush of breath. There. He’d said it.  And before he could stop or think about what he was saying, he continued.

“I’m so, so sorry that I ran away and left you there like that. I was so scared, and upset, and I acted like a wanker, but now I know what I want. I want you. A lot. And I like you, and all those other girls, they don’t mean anything to me. You do. And I want to kiss you, and I want to hold hands with you, and do sentimental rubbish with you that’ll make you scoff but you’ll do it anyway, because you actually _do_ have a heart, an enormous one, actually, and I want to take care of it. Will you forgive me?”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide and bright, and his fingers were steadily crushing John’s hand in his grip because he was holding on to them so hard, but John didn’t care.

“ _Always,_ ” he breathed, as if he’d been holding it in for the entire while, and John pulled his body towards himself.

 “Do you want this?” he asked. “Me?”

“Ever since you asked me for directions in that corridor,” Sherlock whispered, coming closer, closer. “I just didn’t know it yet.”

And then John kissed him. Sherlock made a surprised little noise before he relaxed, his mouth soft and wet and just a tiny bit chapped from the cold night air. John took his time, kissed him slowly, kissed him like he deserved.

“How’d you know where to find me?” he asked against his mouth.

“I always know where to find you, John.”

And of course it should have been said with Sherlock’s characteristic smugness, the tone of _I know everything_ that coloured all the things he said, because Sherlock could deduce anyone to within an inch of their life, finding John should have hardly been a difficult task. But he said it so gravely and so earnestly that John felt like he was drowning, and his chest hurt and he wanted to keep Sherlock tucked against him, away from the rest of the world.

Somehow Sherlock pushed him down by the shoulders so John’s bottom hit the grass with a dull _thump,_ and Sherlock was climbing into his lap, slender limbs everywhere.

“I have been wanting to do this for _ages,_ ” he informed John, pressing his lips against John’s jaw.

“Snog in the rugby field after dark?”

“Sit in your lap,” Sherlock corrected him primly, and did something _wonderful_ with his hips that resulted in John making a strangled groan and tangling a hand in Sherlock’s hair.

“Someone will see us. And then we’ll get expelled.”

“ _John,_ ”  Sherlock said his name in that particular way of his, like he knew John was an idiot but thought it adorable anyway, so inexplicably _fond_ that John was breathless for a second. “My parents pay the school a great deal of money to keep me here. And Mycroft wouldn’t let them expel _you._ ”

“That’s- nice of him,” John said, but Sherlock was sucking on his ear and he didn’t want to talk about Mycroft anymore. Instead he cupped his hands over Sherlock’s hips and encouraged the slow grind he was engaging in. The feel of another boy’s erection pressed up against his thigh was something John was still very new to, but judging by his body’s reactions, he was adjusting to it _very_ quickly.

Sherlock continued to lick and bite down his neck, and oh _god,_ for someone who hadn’t done any of this before, Sherlock was fairly excellent.

John wrapped his arms more securely around his waist and pushed him off, only so he Sherlock would topple onto the grass on his back, and John could climb over him and pin his hands to the ground. So John could hover over him, and wonder how on earth he’d gotten so lucky after acting so stupidly this entire time.

Sherlock wrapped his legs around John’s hips, crossing his ankles as though locking John into place. He looked up at him with a soft, shy smile on his face, the kind of smile that was reserved particularly for John, because Sherlock didn’t trust anyone else to see him like that. His cheeks were pink and his hair was spread out in a halo underneath his head and John thought that he had never seen anyone so perfect.

“I’ve been an idiot,” he told Sherlock.

“You made me dance with _Janine._ ”

“I know, I’ve been so stupid,” He bent down and kissed Sherlock. “But now we have time to make up for it, yeah?”

“I would hope so,” Sherlock said, petulantly. “You spent a great deal of time worrying that I was shagging Irene. I gave you _dance lessons,_ John.”

John grinned and kissed away the rest of Sherlock’s complaints, feeling deliriously happy. Sherlock made a soft noise of approval, and wrapped his arms around John’s neck, and thrusted his hips upwards. The kiss that had started as fairly slow and sweet turned heated and messy very fast, and Sherlock seemed to grow overwhelmed with sensation because he had given up trying to kiss John back and nearly lay there with his mouth slack, letting John lick into him and bite his bottom lip.

John could never have imagined that he would enjoy rubbing up another man’s erection like this, but this wasn’t just _anyone,_ this was Sherlock, and everything about him was gorgeous, so was it really surprising that John wanted to keep him pinned there on the grass and do all manner of un-gentlemanly things to him?

Like run his hands down his sides, over the ridges of his ribs, put his fingers on the skin just above his waistband, hold him, keep him there-

Sherlock shivered underneath him, a soft gasp escaping his mouth, and for a second John thought that it was because Sherlock was enjoying himself, but the next moment he could feel goosebumps under his hands and he suddenly realised with a great deal of guilt that it was starting to get _very cold._

John was in a warm suit, but Sherlock, John pulled away for a second to drag his eyes down the rest of his body- Sherlock was wearing his _pyjamas._

“John?” Sherlock enquired softly, reaching for the front of his shirt and pulling him back down again. “What is it?”

“If we stay here any longer, we’re going to freeze to death,” John informed him. “Why are you in your pyjamas? They’re threadbare.” He tried to give him a disapproving glare, but he didn’t quite manage it, what with the fact that moving away from Sherlock was the _last_ thing he wanted to do.

Sherlock looked extremely put off. “I have been waiting to do this for ages, and now that I finally have you on top of me, you’re going to make it _stop_?”  


“No,” John said quickly, “Of course not,” he pecked him on the lips. “I just- you’re going to get sick. Wait. I have an idea. Get up.”

Sherlock made several very loud noises of protest, but consented to being pulled off the ground. John slipped a hand through his, because he could (because he was _allowed_ now), and this seemed to appease him a little; he looked between their intertwined hands and John’s face, smiling slightly, the blush still prominent on his cheeks. He allowed John to drag him away from the freezing rugby field, squeezing his hand back.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Nowhere special, just somewhere with more heating,” John answered.

“Not the dance hall,” Sherlock said, horrified. John laughed.

“No, of course not. Unless,” he stopped, and then Sherlock stopped, and he turned around to look at him. “Unless- you want to?”

Because John had never asked Sherlock to the dance, even though he had fantasied _plenty_. John had kept throwing around Sarah’s name and kept mentioning to Sherlock that he was taking _her,_ and Sherlock had even given him _lessons,_ damn it. What if Sherlock wanted to dance? Had Sherlock ever been to a school dance? Probably not. But if he wanted to, John was going to take him there and dance with him in front of everyone, and he didn’t care what anyone had to say about it.

In response, Sherlock swiped his hands into his hair and kissed him hard and fast, so suddenly that John’s head spun.

“No,” he said, pulling back, eyes glittering. “I want you all to myself. I’m not going anywhere with you where _other people_ will be able to look at you, in this lovely suit, and where Sarah Sawyer might try to take you back.”

“I very much doubt that,” John replied, breathless. “Because I’m pretty sure I broke up with her…over the phone. And why would I even- I want _you_. Did I- Did I not make that clear?”

Sherlock looked extremely pleased. “Excellent. Yes, you did. Now are you going to take me somewhere where you can snog me senseless?”

***

The place turned out to be John’s car, because he really didn’t know where else to take him, and the parking lot was empty, and the dance was still going on and would continue for another hour or so, and at least the car had heating. Besides, neither of them would be able to wait to go _home._

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him as John fiddled with the car door. “Really, John? Your mother’s car?” he asked, but the effect of it was slightly mitigated by the fact that Sherlock’s teeth were chattering.

John cocked his head as he threw the door open and curled his fingers into Sherlock’s coat (which was the only warm thing he was wearing) and pulled him closer, so he could push him inside. “I don’t know, do you want to sit in the car quietly while I drive us _home_?”

He didn’t give Sherlock to respond because after that the two of them were tumbling inside, and John was closing the door and shutting out the rest of the world, and then somehow Sherlock had pushed him onto the seat and was clambering on to his lap, framing his face in both hands and kissing him. Christ, had he somehow improved since their last kiss…roughly five minutes ago? Because Sherlock’s mouth didn’t seem clumsy and inexperienced anymore.

John wrapped his arms around his slender waist, let Sherlock slide his tongue into his mouth and trace his teeth along his bottom lip.

“I had assumed that physical activity with you would be quite pleasant,” Sherlock told him, the edges of his voice roughened with arousal. His hands slid down John’s chest, grabbed the lapels of his shirt and tugged them off his shoulders so John could shrug out of it and dump it on the seat next to him. “But I had underestimated _how-“_ his voice hitched when John’s fingers dug into his hips and dragged him roughly along the length of his erection, Christ, that felt good. “ _how-_ how- what was I-“

John smirked, because he’d managed to cut Sherlock off in the middle of a sentence, managed to blank out his mind enough that Sherlock had _forgotten_ what he was going to say.

He pushed Sherlock’s coat off of his shoulders, and Sherlock was wearing a ridiculous thread-bare t-shirt that was practically transparent. John swallowed, placed a hand delicately underneath the material, and Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed and his lips parted. John feeling bolder, splayed his fingers over the skin, slid upwards, over his chest. Sherlock’s breath caught and his hips shifted restlessly against his, the hardness apparent and pressing insistently against John’s thigh.

“I want-” John began, and Sherlock nodded eagerly, so John lifted the t-shirt off and now there was just Sherlock’s pale, flawless skin, and John couldn’t help but press a kiss to a bony shoulder. And then he pressed his nose to the side of his neck and just _breathed,_ because he had always wanted to. Sherlock smelled like- a bit of cigarette smoke, faded cologne, and the pungent scent of chemicals that seemed to cling to his skin no matter what.

It seemed like an excellent idea to lick a long wet stripe along the skin so he did that, and Sherlock responded so _perfectly,_ with a soft gasp and tightening of his fingers where they were digging into John’s shoulder, and a jerk of his hips that made his clothed erection rub against his, and god, Sherlock was _hard._ Sherlock was aroused and squirming in his lap and John had no _idea_ that Sherlock could look this way.

“Do that again,” Sherlock commanded, and of course Sherlock was bossy about _this_ as well. John obliged him, closed his mouth around the junction of neck and shoulder and _sucked,_ because Sherlock tasted divine and he wanted to put a mark there, just enough for it to peek above the collar of his shirt, so people would look and have a glimpse and _know_ that someone had had him, marked him up.

Sherlock’s breaths quickened and he kept moving his hips back and forth against him, a steady, torturous rhythm that kept right on the edge with no hope of going over. Because it was maddening but it _wasn’t_ enough, and he wasn’t exactly sure what he was expected to do, he only had some sort of vague idea which hopefully involved the two of them getting off.

Suddenly Sherlock pushed him back against the seat, and he looked at him, eyes hard and glittering in the darkness of the confines of the car, and his hair was a perfect mess and there were twin spots of pink on his cheek and John had never seen anything more gorgeous in his _life._

“I,”he began, still breathless. He slid his hand down John’s chest, down, down, until his hand was just above the waistband of his trousers, and John watched him raptly, his heart stuttering against his chest and his erection bursting through his pants. Then Sherlock fitted his palm over the hard ridge and _squeezed._ “May I conduct an experiment?”

 _May_ _I,_ that posh _git,_ John adored him so _much._ He grabbed him from the back of his neck and kissed him, a hard, rough press of their mouths, their teeth clacking. When he pulled away, Sherlock’s pink lips were parted and he looked dazed.

“You can do anything you like,” John told him, and Sherlock swallowed. The next moment his hands were busy pulling his shirt out of his trousers and then attacking his flies. And of course Sherlock, when he put his mind to something, did it with absolute focus and alacrity. The sight of those pale, elegant fingers pulling his erection out of his pants and then wrapping themselves around him, was beyond every filthy scenario John had ever imagined. It was so impossibly _better_ to actually have Sherlock touching him, his eyes intense and determined as they locked into his.

“How’s this?” he asked, uncertainly, his fingers curled into a loose fist as he moved it up his shaft. “Is this how-?”

John made a strangled sort of noise in response, hips bucking against Sherlock’s fist. There was something about Sherlock’s eager to please, shy tone that was doing funny things to his head.

“I’ll assume this is satisfactory,” Sherlock surmised, eyes sparkling.

Sherlock had never done this, John realised, as he threw his head back and groaned. Sherlock had never touched someone like this, and the thought wrapped around his head and refused to let go.

“God, that’s- _fuck,_ ” John lapsed into swearing as Sherlock moved his fingers over him, careful and deliberate, John could feel hard gaze on him, because obviously Sherlock was _actively deducing him while he wanked him off._ Every time John shifted his hips because Sherlock was doing something _lovely_ with his hands, Sherlock took the hint and repeated it, again and again, until John’s breaths grew desperate and frenzied, and he was rolling his hips into the channel of Sherlock’s fist, one hand around his hip, pulling him closer.

“Am I- is this,” Sherlock asked again, and John curled his fingers into his hair and whispered in his ear, “You’re doing _perfectly,_ ” which made Sherlock’s breath hitch and his movements still for a moment.

“Keep going, Sherlock,” John told him, and Sherlock made a soft noise, not unlike a mewl, and obediently continued. John licked the shell of his ear and bit the lobe because it was right there, and he was so curious, what would Sherlock do if he did _this-_?

And then Sherlock kissed him, messy and filthy and pornographic, really, his hand drawing out John’s pleasure until there was nothing else but Sherlock, Sherlock everywhere, his teeth, his tongue, the rough callouses on his fingertips from handling his violin-

“Fuck, _Sherlock, Sherlock,_ ” John said, voice rough and low and something of a growl. He cupped Sherlock’s jaw and kissed him back, deep and _wet,_ he was falling over the edge and it was perfect, Sherlock was perfect, and John was coming all over his pale, spidery fingers, and he hoped Sherlock didn’t mind.

John must have blacked out for a second or so, because when the world shifted into focus again, Sherlock was still sitting on his lap, wiping his hands on his pyjamas, which meant his pyjamas now had damp, suspicious looking stains, which would soon turn into crusty, suspicious looking stains.

“You are _brilliant,_ ” he told Sherlock, and Sherlock looked up at him from beneath his lashes, almost _shyly._ Sherlock hardly ever looked like that, and it was lovely. “Amazing,” John added, because he wanted to impress upon Sherlock how very much he was all of those things, and _more._ He wrapped both arms and his waist and pulled him closer, and kissed him again. Kissing him had become surprisingly easy in the space of twenty four hours, and more importantly, it had become something of a need. Any moment spent not kissing Sherlock was a waste. Well, maybe not entirely, he had to eat and sleep and such other things, but in _general,_ kissing Sherlock was an excellent use of time.

“It’s impossible that you’ve never done this before,” John gushed. “Please don’t tell me that you’ve shagged a hundred blokes, or something-“

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock chastised him. “I’m simply a fast learner.”

 _You could say that,_ John thought, feeling stupidly smug and content, but then Sherlock melted into the kiss, and John never knew that he could slow Sherlock down like this, that the rapid whirlwind of his energy would mellow down into something so soft and so quiet, but Sherlock kissed him back slowly and sweetly, and they took their time, until John realised that Sherlock’s erection was still pressed up against him.

“You,” he said, and then he was suddenly gripped with the desire to put his hand on Sherlock, to touch him like Sherlock had touched him. “I want to-“

“You don’t have to,” Sherlock answered quickly, realising the direction of John’s thoughts. He pulled away, and his cheeks were pink. “I don’t- well, I do, out of necessity, that is,” and suddenly he looked appalled, as if he hadn’t meant to say that. “I mean. I.”

“Sherlock,” John said, softly, and curled a hand into his hair, right over an ear. “It doesn’t matter. It’s all fine. But I’d really like to touch you. Can I? I might be terrible at it. But I really want to.”

To emphasise this point, John glided a hand up Sherlock’s pyjama covered thigh, and then between his legs, brushing his fingers over the hardness. John’s mouth felt dry. Sherlock didn’t say _yes,_ but he wasn’t saying no either, just panting, hard, the pink flush spreading over his chest and neck. He squirmed a bit, so John took that as encouragement and slid down the waistband of his pyjamas, and then his pants, and then he was wrapping his hands around Sherlock’s cock. It shouldn’t have felt as natural or come as easily as it did, but here was Sherlock, open and ready and _waiting._

He let out a soft moan at the touch, arching his back and immediately his hips hitched forward, pushing his cock in and out of John’s fist.

Damp and hot, leaking a bit at the head. John had no idea what to do when it was someone else’s genitalia and not his own, but he tried to follow Sherlock’s technique and watch; and he supposed he should just do what he liked _himself,_ because John had no other guidelines to follow when wanking someone off.

“John, _John,_ ” Sherlock warbled, and then he fit his face into John’s neck, his hips shakily following the rhythm of John’s hand.

John wrapped an arm around his back and pulled him close, pressed kisses into the thatch of hair just behind his ear; the only spot he could reach. Sherlock whimpered and keened into his neck, following release as John worked him through it- he gripped John’s biceps, hard enough to bruise.

“John,” he kept saying. “John, John, John,” as if it was the other word he knew.

“Never thought I could have you like this,” John told him. “I’m so lucky, do you know that? So fucking lucky.”

“ _John,_ ” Sherlock moaned in reply, wrapping his arms around John’s neck and pulling back to look at him. His eyes were bright, hair sticking to his temples. John kissed him and kissed him, kissed him until Sherlock came, stilling and then releasing like a band, spilling his moans into John’s mouth.

There was ejaculate over his hand, and some on his shirt, and some on his own trousers, but John didn’t care. He pulled Sherlock through the rest of his orgasm until he slumped against John’s front, his back rising and falling rapidly.

John held him close, wrapped him in his arms and rested his head against his shoulder, wishing they could stay like this forever, just shut out the rest of the world and just drown in each other. Sherlock held him back just as tightly, tucked against him soundly.

Eventually, of course, they seemed to both realise that they were sticky and filthy, and Sherlock shivered a little bit, because obviously John had forgotten to even turn on the _heater,_ so he immediately took his suit jacket (because it was closest, and threw it over Sherlock’s shoulders.

“I have had…such a _day,_ ” Sherlock told him, tumbling off of his lap and into the space next to him on the seat. He snuggled against John, and John wasn’t even surprised that Sherlock was a cuddler. He gladly encouraged the burrowing of Sherlock against his side, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him closer. They’d have to clean up, of course, but that could wait.

“Me too,” John agreed. He could still hear the distant music of the hall, and they didn’t have a lot of time left because it would be over soon, and people would come spilling into the parking lot and some chaperone would rudely tap against their glass,-

“Stop it,” Sherlock mumbled, and his mouth pressed against his temple lightly. “Stop thinking so much and just…” Sherlock shook his head, and shifted a bit, so he was no longer clinging to him like a limpet. He looked at him, eyes earnest and shining, and said, “I am _so_ content. And I am never content, John. Nothing has ever held my interest, nothing has ever made so happy as much as _you._ Today I was allowed to kiss you, and give you an orgasm, and now that I have you, I am going to try so hard to keep you. And today was _so awful,_ I kissed _two_ people and not one of them was you, and-“

He stopped immediately. John was so caught up in Sherlock’s words, the warmth and sincerity of them, that he almost hadn’t heard the bit at the end.

Two people.

 _Two_ people?

John narrowed his eyes, and what was that flowing through his veins, burning like acid- ah. Jealousy. He raised an eyebrow. “Two?” he didn’t mean to pitch his voice low like that, for it sound like some sort of sub-sonic growl, but it already taken him a great deal of effort to wrap his mind around _Irene_ kissing him, who was this second person, that John was going to murder with his bare hands-

“Well,” Sherlock looked uncomfortable. He dropped his gaze to his knees. “I- I was going to tell you. Eventually. I know how you’re going to react. _Tediously._ ”

“ _Tediously_?” John echoed. “Am I supposed to be alright with random people having a go at you?” Then he paused. “Do you want…did I misread this, somehow-“

Sherlock looked panicked. “No!” he grabbed John’s wrists, and both their hands were sticky with dried ejaculate, but John didn’t care. “ _No._ You are- you are it. For me. The only one. It wasn’t something I’d planned. I didn’t want it.”

John was seeing red, he was so dizzy. “Are you telling me that someone _forced_ a kiss on you?”

Sherlock cocked his head. “In a manner of speaking.”

 _“In a manner of speaking_? Sherlock, bloody hell. Who was it?”

“Jim.”

“Jim _Moriarty_?” John snarled, and Sherlock flinched, and damn it, John needed to get a grip on himself. He ripped his hands from Sherlock’s grasp and ran them both through his hair. Of course Jim. Jim who mentally undressed Sherlock whenever he saw him, who was always _clever_ and _interesting_ and he was trying to take Sherlock _away_ from him. “I’m going to kill him,” he decided, matter of factly. “I’m going to wring his spindly neck. I’m going to-“

“John.”

“I’ll fucking _kill_ him-“

“ _John,_ ” Sherlock said, and then he took his face in both his hands and kissed him.

Which shouldn’t have calmed him down, but somehow it did. John sighed against his mouth and let Sherlock kiss him, softly and sweetly. “John,” he said again, slowly. “While your protectiveness is alarmingly attractive and I have no doubt that given the opportunity you _would_ beat Jim to a pulp, and I wouldn’t stop you, but please don’t. I’m so happy right now. Don’t let him ruin it. I was going to delete it anyway, because it is of absolutely no consequence to me. But I realised Jim may come to you with some sordid tale, and you needed to know.”

And when had _Sherlock_ been the calm one, the rational one, the one imploring for sanity? John sighed, shoulders slumping, and leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s.  “I know I messed up your first kiss, and I’m sorry, but can I be the only one kissing you from now on?”

“You have more than made up for _that,_ and yes, John. Of course.”

“You’re going to tell me how that happened in the first place you know,” John told him. “But later. If I hear another word about Moriarty I’ll probably explode. Did you at least punch him?”

“ _You’re_ the one who’s always itching for a good brawl, John. No. I did not punch him. But suffice it to say he will not attempt to accost me again.”

“You know, when you talk like that, you sound downright dangerous.”

“I _am_ dangerous,” Sherlock answered smoothly. “So dangerous that I could set the police off on the wrong trail if you _do_ decide to kill Moriarty.”

“That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard,” John said solemnly, and started to kiss him, deciding to have at least one more proper snog before they inevitably had to leave, to kiss Sherlock so thoroughly that he forgot that Jim had every touched him- but suddenly there was this horrible, awful noise of someone tapping their window pane. The two of them jumped.

“Christ,” John hissed, and turned around. The windows were partially darkened, so he couldn’t make out who it was. He threw Sherlock’s t-shirt at him, in case it was a teacher.

“Really, John,” Sherlock huffed, because it had caught him in the face, but he quickly dragged it on anyway.

John rolled down the window angrily, but tried not to let the scowl show on his face in case he was about to be expelled.

“Hello, John,” Victor said pleasantly from outside the car, instead. Henry Knight was standing behind them, and the two of them had matching smirks on their faces. Victor’s eyes slide to somewhere behind John, and he tipped his head in acknowledgment of Sherlock.

John gaped. “What-“

“Thought the two of you could use a heads up,” Henry quipped. “Blake’ll be snooping around in the parking lot in a bit, because there are some other people who had the same bright idea as the two of you, and if there’s something this noble institution frowns upon, it’s-“

“Car sex,” Victor interrupted him, plainly, wearing a very serious expression on his face, before it fell apart and he burst into a laugh.

“Also,” Henry added, leaning forward and dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “Sarah’s been telling anyone who’ll listen that you dumped her on the day of the dance-“

Victor waved it off. “Don’t worry though, we saw her snogging Powers in the third floor Biology lab.”

“And you’d think that’d just make you less popular with the ladies, but now they’re all just discussing which of them should ask you out next.”

Sherlock snorted.

“My thoughts exactly, Holmes.”

John didn’t know what to say. He should have been beyond mortified, to be caught snogging Sherlock in the backseat of a car. Well. Not that either of them had seen him snogging Sherlock, but there were only so many things you could do with another person in such a place. And as for that bit about Sarah; he decided not to dwell on it.

“How did the two of you-“

“Because they’ve been shagging behind the bushes over there, and saw us getting inside,” Sherlock drawled, finally deciding to join this ridiculous conversation. He scooted closer, so he was right behind John. “Thank you for your input. Goodnight,” he continued, and then began to roll up the window.

Victor laughed good naturedly, not at all put off by Sherlock’s rudeness. And instead waved them both goodbye as the window rolled shut. John could make out the two of them leaving, and they looked suspiciously like they were holding hands.

“They were really shagging?” John asked, amazed, turning around to look at Sherlock.

“Yes,” Sherlock did not seem at all surprised by this.

“Did you always know?”

“Of course.”

“And you never told me?”

“Hardly something that came up in our conversations, John.”

John’s head was reeling. “It might have helped. Because I thought Victor liked you.”

“John, why do you think everybody wants to shag me? Come on now, shouldn’t we be getting out of here? As Henry and Victor were so kind to inform us.”

John felt exhausted suddenly. He didn’t want to do anything except curl up here in the backseat, and draw Sherlock next to him and just breathe him in. And perhaps snog a little more. He couldn’t fathom the idea of saying goodbye tonight, even though he would see him tomorrow. John had made so many stupid mistakes, and he’d got Sherlock after being such complete _idiot_ , he was almost afraid of letting him go.

“Why don’t you sleep with me tonight,” Sherlock suggested, and John turned to him, alarmed at this sudden pronouncement.

“Not like that,” Sherlock corrected quickly. “Well. Later. Maybe. Or not. Whatever. What am I saying? I meant, you could sleep in my bed. Next to me. Isn’t it tradition to go home with your date, or something.”

John decided not to think about that little _maybe later_ and the rest of his adorable babbling and instead focused on Sherlock’s proposal. It seemed like a lovely idea. “No, it’s a tradition to shag in the loo, but we haven’t done that,” he said, dryly, which made Sherlock flush.

And then he cleared his throat pointedly, and went on. “I also think my bed is an excellent place to practice fellatio. If I could make you orgasm so quickly tonight, on my _first_ attempt, just imagine how good I’d be once I’d practiced a bit. And I think I’d manage to get the hang of a - what’s the term- _blowjob-_ fairly quickly, as well.”

John stared at him, blood rushing in his ears. His mouth felt very dry. Every bloke enjoyed a good blowjob, and John had received his fair share from willing givers, but there was something especially filthy about the idea of _Sherlock_ doing it. And besides, the prospect of curling up next to him and being allowed to hold him, was absolutely _brilliant._

“You are _such_ a genius,” John told him, and kissed his cheek. “Let’s go.”

***

They didn’t do any of that, though. Because once they’d sneaked into Sherlock’s house and into his bedroom, and Sherlock had stripped out of his filthy clothes and they were in his bed in nothing but their pants, Sherlock’s eyes began to droop in the middle of snogging.

“Ah,” John said, pulling away. Sherlock looked disapproving of this. He scrabbled at John’s chest, tried to get him to come back. “You’re sleepy.”

“No,” Sherlock countered, around an enormous yawn.

And of course Sherlock would continue to deny he was sleepy until his body gave up from sheer exhaustion, so John forced him to lie back against the pillows. “Go to sleep, you git.”

Sherlock mumbled something that to John but consented to being snuggled up against his chest. He even wrapped an arm around John’s waist and pulled him closer, nose buried somewhere around his shoulder.

The day had started out as one of the most awful ones in his _life,_ and it had ended with him curled up against Sherlock in his bed. This was perfect.

“I was so jealous,” Sherlock mumbled against his chest. “Of Sarah. And all the other girls. Never been jealous before. I couldn’t even recognise what it was, at first, but I was _so jealous_.”

“You don’t have to be jealous anymore,” John reminded him, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “We don’t have to be jealous of anyone, I think.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed. “Not anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


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